


When We Assume

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Date, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade has accepted a date with Mycroft Holmes.  Now, the Detective Inspector needs to get himself out of his own head...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade set down his phone and stared at it.  Then stared some more.  Then dared it to show its true colors as an agent of discord.  Which it was too cowardly to accept.  Bastard.

Mycroft Holmes.  Tall, aloof, well-dressed, well-groomed, well-everything, intelligent, three shades of twinkle in both his eyes when he said something funny… wanted a date.  Not that he said _date_.  He said something that took four paragraphs and words Lestrade had scribbled down to look up later, but the gist was pretty clear.  One evening involving some form of food, alcohol and conversation.  The middle one was easy.  The first one could be a mess if Mycroft was one of those who liked the places with huge plates and tiny food that actually tasted like something you would serve to a doll.  The last one… bollocks.  From what little he’d seen, Mycroft outmaneuvered Sherlock in conversation, so what hope did he have of keeping up?  There was no universe in which this would end well.  But, he’d make a list anyway. Lists were good for thinking and that's what he needed to do right now. Think.

After making a satisfyingly-rude gesture at his computer, Lestrade drew a writing pad out of his desk drawer.  Not going to leave something as important as his list to that bit of wires and plastic from hell.  Push the wrong key and there goes the morning’s work!  And fuck off to that spotty IT boy who shows up after an hour to say all you have to do is press these eleven keys all at the same time sorry you only have ten fingers you feeble old man and click your heels together thrice to get it all back.  Fuck off again for good measure, you twat.  Paper put us on the Moon, well, put the Americans on the moon, so it’s good enough for a list.  Twat.

Pencil.  Good solid wooden pencil.  That needs sharpening.  Good solid pencil sharpener.  All simple machines that made England strong.  Powered the Industrial Revolution.  And breaks your fucking pencil every time you almost have it pointy enough!  Stupid machine.  Just as stupid as that computer but at least it didn’t cost as much as a nice holiday.  Well, not _that_ computer because he was firmly convinced they got ones that you saw ads about.  Donate your old computers to the poor sad children off in somewhere too hot to think, but we’ll drain off this lot for the police and the prisons, if you don’t mind.  They’re at the bottom of the pile anyway and we don’t want those poor kiddies getting shoddy equipment, now do we?  Police and prisoners can make do, though.  Almost one and the same thing those two are, anyway.

So pencil and paper.  Line across the top to write the title… Should I Date Mycroft Holmes…. and another line to scratch out the whole thing because feeble old men with only ten fingers shouldn’t write like a 13 year-old girl.  Or, could have erased and not had to get another piece of paper because the first one was embarrassing.  Pencil and piece of paper number 2.  Line across the top… screw the line across the top, just go straight to the list.  Item number 1.  Or should it be A?  No, 1 was better.  Ok, item number 1.  Should this be a Pros list or a Cons list?  Or both.  That would take a line down the center of the paper, but since it didn't need a title, the chance for having to do a scratch-out and move to piece of paper number 3 was small.  Line down the center it was.

Pros: 

  1. Handsome.  Sexy really.  Aristocratic.  Long and lean, too, which made the sexy part all the more… sexy.  Staring across at that during dinner wasn’t going to be a hardship.  Any hardship on his part would be successfully hidden by the table and, most likely, a nice tablecloth that kept nosy eyes off of his lap.  Which was a serious possibility to consider because he’d be staring at _that_ face.  Mycroft had the sexiest lips of any man he’d ever seen.  And eyes.  His nose was something to murder for and that wasn’t something a policeman joked about for fear he’d be on the front page of some rag at 9:00am and in front of the Chief Superintendent at 9:01 am.  And what about ears?  Could ears be sexy?  Well, Mycroft’s were, so it _had_ to be possible and those ears could be the example they used when the point needed proving to the stupidly ignorant.  The curve of his chin… it beckoned like a late-on-the-rent prostitute.  He should go ahead and do the public a service and print out photos of Mycroft Holmes and carry them around so when some misguided idiot said one of those film stars was the best looking thing walking, he could shove one of the photos on the poor suffering bastard and let them be witness to the truth.   Truth with a smile that made your knees go weak as the drinks at his local.

  2. Sexy.  Which might have been part of 1 but really deserved its own category because sexy was about more than being good-looking.  It was how you moved and looked at other people and what your voice sounded like and how what you said all came together in a please-fuck-me-now-I’m-begging-you-if-you-can’t-tell-you-feeble-old-man sort of way.  So, definitely sexy.  It was almost hypnotic.  You got caught up in watching and listening and parts of you that know better than to misbehave start to misbehave and standing there with your hands in your pockets and then clasped together like you were praying for mercy so you could hide your misbehavior was just pathetic and couldn’t be convincing if you had a letter from your Mum saying you really were a good boy who didn’t have misbehaving bits.  But that’s what happened when you were hypnotized!  It’s all fun and games until you’re quacking like a duck or sporting an erection that could be used to cut steel plates for a battleship’s hull.  It was now officially time to stop thinking about erections.  Focus on list, not on erections.  Don’t even think about the word or what Mycroft might do if he had access to the erection he was absolutely not thinking about…

  3. Clothes.  Holy god floating on a chocolate cloud… He would almost be as happy to shag those clothes as the man wearing them.  They were exquisite and that was saying something coming from a man who didn’t use the word exquisite unless there was a damned good reason!  They fit him perfectly and looked perfect on him and he wore then like a second skin.  Comfortably, beautifully since his first skin was beautiful if it wasn’t weird to call a man’s skin beautiful… enough said about clothes.  Except that they could hide all sorts of things like sexy undergarments that were probably made of very nice fabrics and were perhaps just a bit kinky which wasn’t that crazy an idea because those eye twinkles of Mycroft’s told a bit of a tale about certain bits of the man’s personality in Lestrade’s opinion but enough said about clothes.  Except that taking off all those bespoke clothes, piece by piece, would be the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced.  Especially if it ended with silky, kinky underthings.  Even without them.  But especially with them.  Ok, very enough said about clothes.

  4. Conversation.  That was going on both lists.  On the pro side, talking to Mycroft wasn’t boring.  It wasn’t useless time-filling waggly words, it was meaningful and interesting.  Not that they’d talked much, only a couple of times, but Lestrade could tell that if he concentrated and dredged up all the vocabulary lessons his teachers threw at him, which actually did stick if he just dragged their screaming, dark-of-the-mind-ghostly bodies into the sunlight, they could probably talk for hours and never cover the same ground twice.  Not like some of the lads at the pub where it was ‘hey see the match last night?’ drink, ‘hey see the match last night?’  That was only _him_ when he was _very_ drunk and there were a lot worse things that happened when he was very drunk so being a bore barely rated.  But talking with Mycroft could be interesting, engaging, challenging… fun.  It had been so long since he’d really gotten the chance to have a quiet evening when he could really _talk_ to someone…

  5. Money.  Not that it was a good thing Mycroft had stacks of money, which Lestrade didn’t know for sure, even though he totally did, because no one wore clothes like that who didn’t have piles of cash, but he wouldn’t be going out with someone who’d be ‘oh look a feeble old man who won’t mind paying for everything and a few extra souvenirs to boot.’  Like the last few he’d gone out with.  Sure, being a sugar daddy sounded fun on paper until you were actually asked to lay out that sugar and your sugar bowl was alright, but maybe a bit cracked and surely not full to the brim and some of it was a little clumpy and not at all good for anything but very hot tea.  And who wanted to date someone who scooped out big spoonful’s of your sugar and didn’t even bring you a nice cup of tea to say thanks?  Who did that?  Twats, that’s who and he was entirely done with dating twats.  Mycroft wanted to go out with him for _him_ , not because he could pay for a decent meal and a bottle of wine.  There wasn’t an ulterior motive.  No one looking to be taken care of.  Just sharing a nice evening with someone you want to get to know better and decide if you want to share _more_ nice evenings with them.  That was good.  At his age, that was a very good thing.




Lestrade ran his fingers through the index cards in his brain and realized there were quite a few things he could put in the pros column, but he was running out of that side of the paper and piece of paper number 3 was not coming into play at this stage because it still stank of potential defeat.  On to the Cons list.

Cons:

This was why it had been a brilliant idea to put a line down the center of the paper!  Looking at the Pros side, it was easy to see that every one of those items, not just the Conversation part, could just as easily go on this side.  And it all lined up nicely.  Take that computer!  Piece of paper lining things up like a champion when you’d just hack and cough and make things all dribbly, you useless piece of shit.

  1. Handsome.  Sexy really.  Aristocratic.  Long and lean, too.  All of which he was not.  Not that he was a gargoyle or anything, though those gargoyles on that cartoon were surprisingly sexy in a why-am-I-watching-a kid’s-cartoon-when-I’m-a-feeble-old-man-but-that-one’s-got-great-muscles sort of way.  He was an average bloke with an average face and an average body and the hair of a geezer in a rocker with a blanket over his lap.  Put side by side, people would wonder if Mycroft was doing a friend a favor.  Here, take my dad out for a night, he’s getting on a bit, but could do with a nice little turn around the city and, in return, I’ll make the French ambassador stop prank calling you at fuck o’clock in the morning.   There just wasn’t anything good about that and he’d probably get patted on the head by the server at the restaurant and called dad while they were shaking their arse for Mycroft’s notice.  Bastard.  Probably should hook them up with the IT berk; they’d make a happy couple.

  2. Sexy.  Mycroft moved like a dancer.  Or a panther.  Or a dancing panther, but not in that electrocuted way the young people were doing it.  Not that it had been much different in his day, but it was better anyway.  Just because.  Mycroft was all ballet and jungle cat and _he_ fell over yesterday trying to avoid stepping in the hole he was afraid was going to make him fall over if he stepped in it.  Twat of a hole.  Maybe it was good if he got pushed around in an old-person’s wheelchair or something so he didn’t have to show off his complete lack of grace compared to Panthrishnikov.  And his voice could do the role of a lorry-driver in some tire ad on the telly.  If there was a queue for sexy people to stand in, he’d be hiding _behind_ a burnt-out lorry trying to catch a glimpse of what they were queuing for.  Probably a date with another sexy person who didn’t fumble-foot their way onto their backs next to soggy holes.

  3. Clothes.  The combined age of what he was wearing probably equaled that of the bottle of cologne that haunted his dresser like Marley’s ghost.  No… older because this was a _very_ old tie.  So old it had reproduced and left it’s offspring in his closet in a quaint little nest of shiny stripedness.  Old, plain clothes.  Good clothes, solid clothes, clothes you could wash for years and they never let you down but stalwart old plain clothes are still fucking old plain clothes.  What would he even wear for their date?  The jacket that good-thing-it-was-brown-so-the-coffee-stain-really-didn’t-show or the blazer exactly the shade of blue you wore to visit your Gran on her birthday?  Mycroft Holmes in his bespoke clothes and him wearing whatever his hand reached first on the rack at whatever shop was closest to where he was at the moment.  They’d put him out in the alley behind the restaurant to prevent spoiling the appetites of all the other customers.  And you know the only ones who like eating in alleyways?  Lady and Tramp.  Period.  Stupid dogs with their big pasta noodle.  Not much fun doing that doing that by yourself since there wasn’t a spaghetti long enough to reach Mycroft’s table from way out near the bins.  Fucking pasta should be outlawed like blue-for-Gran blazers.

  4. Conversation.  Where to start?  Mycroft was a genius.  Not that he any confirmation of that but Sherlock seethed when Mycroft was around and Mycroft just gave him that little indulgent smile like people give to seethers when they know they have the upper hand.  Not that he was stupid, not by anyone’s standards, except Sherlock’s when he was feeling testy, but it’s one thing to be intelligent and another to be Wylie Coyote Super Genius which Mycroft definitely was except in name only since the fucking coyote was so useless he got outwitted by a bird every episode.  What would he do if Mycroft wanted to talk about international finance or politicians of the 14th century or some ancient civilization that wrote in those little characters that look like you tossed matchsticks into the air and let them land on a rock?  Smiling and nodding only went so far!  He’d be caught out as an intellectual charlatan and probably get run out of the restaurant by Mycroft’s brain that would jump out the man’s skull and chase him with a fish fork.  And Mycroft would _still_ be smart enough to call the server over to take them up on the arse-shaking that was on the menu earlier.  Someone was getting a very large tip and it wasn’t going to be him.  And, yes, he meant that in a vaguely suggestive way which he really shouldn’t think about since feeble old men could have heart attacks thinking like that and with only ten fingers he’d have a hard time clutching his heart _and_ hitting 999 on his phone.

  5. Money.  Mycroft had stacks of money.  His money probably had money of its own.  If he did some research on something other than the computer staring evilly at his nicely divided piece of paper he’d probably find that those big denomination notes that only banks used had Mycroft’s picture on them.  In profile, too, the sexy fucker.  Stacks, piles, pots, wads of very moneyish money.  He made a good wage, there was no mistaking that, but it was a wage, not Smaug’s bloody fortune.  Mycroft Holmes and Scrooge McDuck probably had tea together and played rounds of golf with solid gold balls on a green made of shredded money and emerald dust.  And here he was dancing around his flat in his pants when he called for a food delivery and they were running a special that would give him enough for breakfast the next morning for £1 more.  Which he would eat _while_ wearing his pants that were as worn thin as a six year-old’s favorite joke.  Mycroft probably had take-away delivered by a supersonic fighter jet that picked it up in the country of origin and had it hot and ready to eat at his palace door within an hour of the butler placing the order.




Lestrade looked at his list and swiveled his chair around because the computer was sneering at him.  There were a lot more words on the Cons side and they were a lot less legible, which meant there was more emotion behind them.  Or his hand was getting tired.  Stupid pencil.  Should have used a nice, smooth pen that the bastard sharpener couldn’t have mocked him over.  Lestrade reached over and positioned it on his desk so it and the computer could have a staring war.  That would give him time to figure this out without mechanical distraction.  Ok…  as it stood, the answer was a clear no.  Ring that gorgeous bastard up and say he had to cancel due to some unforeseen goings-on.  That was what happened to _him_ when someone wanted to take the polite way out after they’d had a change of heart.  Universal signal for I made a mistake and have a nice life without me.  Why had he even said he’d check his schedule in the first place!  Oh yeah, hadn’t made the list yet.  The big don’t-you-dare-go-out-with-Mycroft-Holmes-if-you-want-to-keep-your-pride- _and_ -your-man-parts-firmly-connected-to-your-body list.  The list that screamed No! like some luckless extra soon to be hacked to death in a bad horror film.  No no no.  No with a serving of more no on the side.  No with some junk in its trunk, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean but it sounded good so he was going with it.  No with…

The ringing of his mobile sent Mr. List flying one direction and Mr. Pencil stabbing its way into Lestrade’s leg which would not kill him with lead poisoning because yes he did know that pencil lead wasn’t actually lead, so fuck off ghost of Sherlock’s scorn, but it hurt like a bastard anyway.

      “What in the name of… this had bloody well be important!”

      “Ah, Detective Inspector, have I caught you at a distressing moment?”

FUCK!  Now his fucking mobile was trying to fucking ruin his love life!  This was the computer’s fault.  Wireless Bluetooth digital fuckfest with his pal mobile phone.  Everything was going under the tire of his lorry, not the burnt-out he was hiding behind one but the good one he was selling tires for, and heading for a crushing!  Fuckity fuck the diddly duck and…

      “Gregory?  Are you well?  I am sending emergency response to your location immediately.”

      “No!  I’m fine…. just… I just jabbed a fu… a stupid pencil into my leg.”

      “Was it intentional?”

      “No, I was just… doing something and sort of forgot I had a pencil in my hand when I decided to smack my leg…” 

      “Why would one consciously decide to slap one’s leg?  Were you beset by a stinging insect?  Gregory, are you allergic to insect venom?  I am resending emergency response to your location.  Can you wave so that your colleagues are alerted to your anaphylactic reaction?”

The very real concern in Mycroft’s voice, ignoring the Sherlockian drama, was… nice.  Needed to find a better word than nice for stuff.  That would be another list and since he was the List Master it would be a list that would kick other lists’ arses.  But, for now… nice worked.

      “Mycroft, I’m not dying.  There wasn’t an insect, it was just me being a bit silly.  So, what can I do for you?”

The large, relieved sigh on the other end of the phone was… nice.  Why wasn’t his arse-kicking second list already ready for use!

      “I am very happy to hear that is the case.  And, I apologize for intruding a second time upon your day; however, I realized that I was very remiss in failing to provide you with my intended location for our assignation so that you might choose proper attire.”

Oh god… this was going to mean a suit, at the very least.  Maybe a tuxedo rental.  What was more upscale than a tux?  Whatever it was he was probably going to have to get one made to even be let in the front door of this place oh fuck this is the absolute worst and oh double-fuck Mycroft is still talking…

      “I was considering a superb Moroccan restaurant owned by a lovely couple recently come to our shores _from_ Morocco.  It is quite small, but the critics have not yet discovered it’s extraordinarily-pleasing cuisine and it is still possible to secure a table in the evening with little difficulty.  Please do dress casually as the ambience is delightfully relaxed and I would hope, perhaps, to escort you for drinks afterwards.  There is an establishment a short walking distance away that boasts a marvelous selection of beers from a variety of small-batch breweries.  I have heard its praises sung by a number of colleagues and have been anxious to verify their veracity.  Does this appeal to you or shall I consider other arrangements?”

Appeal?  Dinner at a hideaway Moroccan place then a night of beer-sampling?  Really?  Who was this person and what had he done with Mycroft Holmes?

      “That sounds amazing, actually.  Like a great evening.  And I checked my calendar and…”

And make a few sounds like you actually have a real calendar to check so your pitiful lies aren’t so obviously pitiful.

      “…I’m free Wednesday.  If that works for you, I mean.”

      “Wednesday suits my schedule very well.  I am very much looking forward to this, Gregory.  I know that your free time is as scarce a quantity as is mine and I thank you for agreeing to spend a portion of it in my company.”

That sounded eager.  As eager as Mycroft could probably sound.  That was… good.  It was official; he was spending the rest of the day reading a thesaurus.

      “I’m looking forward to it, too.  Meet you there?”

      “Perish the thought.  I shall collect you as is my responsibility as the one who initiated our little adventure.  Would 7:00 pm be too early?  I would make the most of our evening, if possible.”

      “Seven sounds great.  I’ll let you know if anything comes up.  I’m sure you know how it is.”

      “Quite well.  Then I shall see you on Wednesday.  Goodbye, Gregory.”

      “Sounds good.  Bye.”

Ok… list got sent down the toilet.  Swimming down the plumbing and into the sewer with the other good intentions.  No, that was the road to hell.  Which didn’t have plumbing but there had to be plumbing somewhere in hell so it all worked.  No no dance-in-hell no carved into Moses’s tablets and he was going out on Wednesday anyway.  But it sounded fun!  No worries about clothes and there’d be beer!  Beer… something he knew a bit about!  And liked!  Stupid list… probably was working with the sharpener and computer the whole time trying to ruin his date.  Bastards.  Well, he’d show them.  Wear something casual but tight in the right places, have fun eating some good spicy food, then see how many beers it took to get the mighty Mycroft Holmes relaxed enough to maybe… not allowed to wonder about maybes right now.  Having beer-inspired sex on the first date was NOT the way this was going to go down.  Unless they wanted it to.  Not that it was his plan even though Mycroft was lickably gorgeous and… oh god, he wouldn’t be in a suit.  As sexy and erection-summoning as those suits were the sudden thought of Mycroft in common clothes letting his natural good looks do all the talking by themselves was threatening to explode his head wide open like he’d swallowed a grenade.  And those sex-grenade casual clothes would be tastefully-expensive and perfectly fitted and there’d still plenty of room to hide silky kinky underthings that his bastard of a sodding list almost made him miss out on for biasing his thinking onto one side of the page.  Wednesday… plenty enough time to get that pencil point out of his leg and maybe find a nice blue, no black, definitely black shirt to wear.  His hair looked spectacular when he wore black…

__________

Mycroft set down his mobile and allowed himself a moment to regain his composure.  What was he thinking?  It had been… years… since he had escorted someone for a romantic evening and he chooses to break his solitude with Gregory?  A man of breathtaking beauty and impeccable character.  Who drew from him more true smiles and laughter than any individual… ever.  Whose mind was as agile as his muscular limbs.  Who embraced him as a person, not stood apart in worry over his position.  Saw him as a man… not a private bank.  Blast!  He was not suitable for such a magnificent creature!  Gregory deserved someone as stunning, kind, entertaining and noble as himself, not… oh this was a deplorable lapse in judgment.  But he had been bewitched!  The latest folder of surveillance photos were… exquisite.  And that was not a word he applied to people unless it was highly-merited and which, to date and _counting_ today, could be tallied on the fingers of one hand with four left over. He had taken complete leave of his senses and made his impetuous phone call to the scintillating Detective Inspector before the rational portions of his brain could outshout their troublesome brethren on the parliamentary floor of his mind. He was not an appropriate escort for such a man!  As it stood, it had taken him the full measure of his intellect to plan an evening that Gregory would enjoy and appreciate and it had exhausted him thoroughly.  How could he expect now to provide entertaining conversation and amiable company if he had already bankrupted his supply of behavior of the hopefully-romantic nature?

Perhaps he should cancel.  Affect an emergency that required his attention.  It was the considerate method to express one’s change in sentiment, was it not?  But Gregory was not a fool… he would see through the subterfuge and take offense… this was confounding!  He must make a list…that was the proper vehicle to enumerate the benefits and detriments to this decision and weigh the balance accordingly.  Yes, a tidy ordered list was most certainly the proper tool to organize his thinking.  All that was required was a pencil and paper… most certainly not his laptop.  The vile thing had the audacity this morning to announce that his printer could not be found… they _would_ be having words later about its future in this office…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not at the date yet, because neither one of the participants has anything to wear!

      “Sir, take off the sunglasses.”

One head shake according to their pre-discussed signal system.  So, no.

      “Sir, remove your sunglasses.”

One head shake and a pursing of the lips.  Second piece added as a personal addendum of displeasure.

      “Sir, take your sunglasses off of your face and do it now.”

One head shake and a straightening of his sleeve.  The severity of this action could not be overstated.

      “Sir, you are wearing sunglasses and a long, dark coat.  Within minutes I am going to intercept a report of a possible terrorist in the menswear section and won’t you feel silly then?”

A firm snap of his earpiece and a very rewarding yelp from his assistant.  But Anthea _did_ have a point; he would remove the sunglasses.  Just as soon as he donned this suitable, wide-brimmed hat.

      “Do not put on that hat, sir.  This is not Spy vs. Spy.”

Insufferable woman.  And she had nay-sayed his idea in the first place, cementing her limited use for personal matters.  How could he know what casual attire best suited him if he had little clue of what casual attire encompassed?  Admittedly, rubbing shoulders with the rank and file was not his preferred way to spend his lunch hour, but desperate times called for desperate measures and his assignation with Gregory was _just_ such a desperate time.  It needed to proceed flawlessly.  He would have a single chance to impress the Detective Inspector and that single chance could not be wasted.

      “Sir, standing in one place for too long while fondling a hat is going to bring us back to the terrorist discussion.”

Two earpiece flicks for that piece of cheekiness, but he put down the hat and placed his sunglasses in his pocket.  In trade, just one little turn and…

      “Don’t turn up your collar, sir.  It makes you look like your brother.”

…and he had no idea what she was sputtering on about now.  He had no intention of turning up his collar.  What an utterly gauche suggestion.

      “Just skulk towards the shirts, sir.  See if a style suits you.”

Skulk?  A Holmes did not skulk.  They surreptitiously meandered.  He was now surreptitiously meandering towards the chaos of colors draped across hangers on unflattering metal racks.  Some of said colors were actually causing pain to his eyes.  They bordered on actionable under various aspects of the weapons regulations.  The weapons regulations would now be put on the list for revision to include eye-stabbing colors.  He would not miss them, nor would Gregory, so no one of consequence would be unduly put out by the unilateral ban.

There were, however, a few more conservative options to consider.  Buttons or no buttons?  No buttons provided a cleaner look, but _with_ buttons provided more expedient access should… no, best not think in shoulds.  But _should_ one think in shoulds, the nicest possible should trajectory ended in a wonderfully complex twining of limbs and naked flesh that…

      “Stop staring at that woman’s bottom, sir.  It isn’t polite.”

How slanderous.  That her bottom was positioned in line of sight with his daydream was in no way attributable to _him_.  In any case, daydreaming was not an efficient use of time at this point.  Buttons… back to buttons… perhaps a buttoned shirt cut just loose enough to permit a wandering hand to freely reach his skin, should the occasion arise.  However… despite Sherlock’s mandrake-like shrieking, he had taken pains, very secret and private pains, to slim his figure and even add a touch of tone to various muscle groups that would be sadly hidden under a buttoned shirt.  That is, of course, unless he chose to wear something along his brother’s woefully ill-fitting model.  Stupid boy… those shirts made him appear as an eight year-old being forced to wear the hand-me-downs originally destined for a four year-old.   Perhaps buttons were the wrong choice, after all.  Something else… something to showcase to Gregory that under the very expensive and flattering suits was a body that was surprisingly fit for someone in his position and tendency to avoid any form of exertion beyond the intellectual.

      “Sir, someone _will_ be dispatched to remove you from the premises if you don’t even pretend to browse the merchandise.”

Bother!  Why was it considered inappropriate to _think_ anymore?  Fine… stroll about and attempt to avoid contact with any of the more Carnivale-inspired garments.  And how fortuitous… the land of buttonless shirts appears on the horizon.  Mycroft surveyed his surroundings and, finding no bottoms he could be called out for supposedly violating, allowed himself to descend into a small, but very pleasant thought of the Detective Inspector’s surprise at finding something other than a flabby, wobbly bureaucrat arriving to chauffer him to their evening.  And perhaps… though it was far better accomplished with the buttoned brethren, he could choose a style that allowed some small measure of his very manly chest hair to be visible.  Surely Gregory would appreciate knowing his potential romantic partner bears one of nature’s biological markers for virility?  That Sherlock was nearly as smooth as a baby’s bottom told quite the tale, in his opinion.  And the hair on one’s head was absolutely no substitute for a champion showing on an impressive chest.  Curls… if he had to suffer one more shake of his brother’s head designed solely to draw attention to his mane of curls, there would be words.  And virility, or lack thereof, would be among them.

      “Sir, people are likely wondering if you are subject to microseizures at this point.”

      “Be silent, woman!”

      “Sir, we agreed that verbal communication on your part would make you look mental.”

Straightening _both_ sleeves this time.  Someone’s Christmas bonus was in dire jeopardy.  And why did these garments all possess some form of ridiculous cartoon or scattering of hieroglyphs?  This could not be the sum total of the offerings because his Gregory did not debase himself by wearing such humiliating pieces.  Not that his Gregory _was_ his Gregory at this point, however it always benefitted one to be prepared.

      “Sir, wander… 4.3 meters to your left and recommence your reconnaissance.”

Excellent.  Precise directions and… well, well, well… this was far more appealing even sans buttons.  The cut of that one with the higher neck… though it would hide his proof of potency, it would emphasize his graceful neck and draw color up towards his rather colorless face.  That was certainly an option…

      “No yellow.”

Not that he was actually considering the particularly goldenrod hue of the specimen his hand had been cautiously approaching…

      “You’re too tall for that much yellow, sir.  I doubt your intended message is The Big Banana.”

How utterly impolite.  Perhaps…

      “No red.  You’ll look feverish.”

Well, that would not do.  Gregory might reconsider their evening if he appeared ill.  Hale, hearty, the aforementioned virile… those were acceptable adjectives, sickly was not.

      “And it’s not good with your hair, try the green.”

Hair?  Mycroft tugged a strand of his rich mahogany locks and…

      “I _do_ make your hair appointment, sir.  Red does not complement gin… shades similar to your very distinguished tone which sometimes might show uncontrollable flashes of other, _lighter_ tones when viewed in the proper lighting.”

Ah.  Yes.  There is that.  So, green was it?  Perhaps _that_ particular item was a possibility… no interruption?  No impertinence?  Well then…one green shirt makes the cut.

      “Take a blue one, also.  For your eyes.  Sir.”

Hmmm… blue.  Not his first choice, but if it provided enhancement to his features…

      “The fitting rooms are behind you, sir.”

One head shake.  Surely the woman was trying to make a jest.

      “Sir, you need to confirm the style and color are appropriate for what you are trying to accomplish.  Go and try them on.”

One head shake and a pronounced pursing of the lips.  Argument on this issue would not be tolerated.

      “That motion of your lips won’t be repeated during your date if you arrive resembling a transient, sir.  And I know you _are_ anxiously anticipating lip motions with the Detective Inspector.  Do not straighten your sleeve at me, sir, I’m only trying to help.  Now, go.  If these are unsuitable, you will need to find other options and I doubt sincerely you wish to make a return trip to this lovely shop.”

That was not something he could bring himself to contemplate.  Very well… whatever he contracted surely would be treatable with antibiotics, in any case.

___

Cubicles of pestilence… why one would ever stoop to placing one’s body in a stained and faintly odiferous box quite confounded him.  Except in the circumstance where one is attempting to design an approachable and engaging appearance for a potential paramour.  For his Detective Inspector, no sacrifice was too great.  Except one.

      “Do your eyes hurt, sir?  Why are you pointing at them?”

Head shake, you foolish functionary.

      “I believe it is safe to speak in hushed tones, sir.”

      “Avert your eyes.”

      “For what reason.”      

      “You shall not gaze upon me in my unclothed state.”

      “Sir, I daily conduct meetings with you while you take your hour in the swimming pool.”

      “It is expected to wear a scarcity of clothing for that activity.  This situation is an incongruity that I will not permit you to witness.”

      “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Sir.”

      “I shall dock your pay for that outburst.”

      “ _I_ prepare the HR statements, sir.  But, I am averting my eyes.  And…interrupting the building’s entire surveillance system for the duration.  Will that be sufficient?”

      “Minimally.  I will cough when again you may offer your opinion.”

<...................................>

      “Cough.”

      “You could have actually coughed, sir, and not said the word.”

      “Do not deride my methods.  Now, report.”

      “Very flattering, sir.  The results of your swimming regimen are nicely highlighted.”

      “And my neck?”

      “Swanlike.”

      “Excellent.  Color?”

      “Very suitable.  Hold the blue in front of you, sir?  Oh, definitely that one.  The Detective Inspector will be quite pleased.”

      “You are certain?”

      “Do not deride my fashion sense, sir.”

      “Touché.  Have you taken sufficient footage to send to my tailor?”

      “I will order a selection for you in both the green and blue.  If… When… you enjoy your second date, we shall not have to go through this process again.”

      “Quite acceptable.  Unless I require buttons.”

      “Would you like to try on a button-up while you are already here, sir?”

      “My agenda for the afternoon?”

      “……. cleared.  This will leave sufficient time for trousers and shoes.  I assume you are not so committed to your disguise that you are considering altering the status of your undergarments?”

      “We shall speak of this upon my return, Anthea.”

      “No, sir, because we shall be too busy compiling a list of discussion topics for your date.”

      “Ah.  Very well.  You have dodged the axe blade.”

      “Thank you, sir.  And sir… a comb is warranted.  You have gone a bit… floofy.”

      “Words, Anthea.  They are officially returned to my calendar.”

__________

      “Can’t you tell me _anything_?”

      “It’s a date!  What more do you need to know?”

      “Who, what, when, how and… ok, I don’t need the why.  I’m sure the condoms in your wallet have gone to dust by now.”

      “John Watson, you are an evil man.”

      “And yet you still bring me shopping for your sex wear.  Greg Lestrade is a hypocritical eunuch.”

      “Speaking of, how’s it coming breaking into Sherlock’s lock, I mean cock, box?”

      “Good… and by good I mean we actually sat together in a comfortable fashion on the sofa last night.”

      “He used you for a footrest, didn’t he?”

      “Bastard.  And yes.”

      “It’s a start.”

      “From small beginnings… do mighty oak trees grow?  I’m crap for old sayings.”

      “Which is strange because you _are_ old.  And crap.”

      “Says the man that lovely waitress at the café winks at every time you get coffee.  She’s what, sixty?”

      “What can I say?  Everybody wants a piece of this.  I mean if… no, not important.”

      “Yes it is, so do go on.”

      “Nope.  You’re just here to help me pick out a new shirt.  Maybe some new cologne.  Lackey’s don’t need details.”

      “Oh, but this one does.  Tell me or… I’ll tell Sherlock you’re dating his brother or something and won’t that… what?  What’d I say?”

      “Nothing.”

      “You’ve gone grey as your hair!  No… are you telling me… Mycroft?  You’re going out with Mycroft?”

      “I’m not telling you anything.  You’re just amusing yourself with the sound of your own voice.”

      “You and Mycroft?  Really?”

      “And what’s so wrong with that?”

      “You finally admit it at least.  And nothing.  Oddly and weirdly, nothing.  I feel like my brain should be on fire or something but it doesn’t seem to have any problem with you and Mycroft out for an evening.  Though I refuse to picture the afterwards with the both of you naked.  My mind will not accept that image, even if you want my medical opinion about certain positions and what they might do to a back as old as yours.”

      “Well, thank god for that.  You picture me naked and I’m charging admission.  But… you really don’t have a problem with it?  Think it’s sort of crazy?”

      “No, I really don’t, which is probably the signal of some form of early-onset dementia, but I’m sure Sherlock will see they put me in a nice home when the time comes.  As long as I leave him a big note next to his microscope so he doesn’t forget.”

      “Ok… good.  If the most boring man on Earth doesn’t see a problem with it then maybe I’m not so insane.”

      “Of course, we _could_ run the idea by Sherlock and see what he thinks.”

      “I will slit your throat and feed your blood to the tigers at the zoo.”

      “Save the tough talk for Mycroft.  He’ll probably get off on it.”

      “Really, you think so?”

      “Ummm… hard to say.   But the more proper and powerful they look, the kinkier they are underneath.”

      “I’ve got my fingers crossed for knickers.”

      “I’d make it even odds.”  

      “Yes!  This is getting better and better!  Cozy Moroccan, beer tasting…”

      “What?  Are we talking about the same Mycroft Holmes?”

      “Amazing, huh?  I was getting fairly worked up over the thought of the whole thing, but when he told me what he had planned… this is going to be great!”

      “That’s… wow.  I’d say he actually put thought into that.  Are you sure I can’t have him?  I’ll trade you mine.”

      “You don’t have a mine, yet.  And no, anyway.  I like big brother better for what I’ve got in mind.”

      “Knickers?”

      “And the naked lack thereof.  So help me find something to wear to get me to that point.”

      “Ok.  Cozy means…”

      “Casual.  Hideaway gem that probably doesn’t even take reservations.”

      “Bloody hell, that is amazing.  But that means you can’t use nice clothes to cover up your wealth of flaws.”

      “Thanks for that, you troll.  But, you’re right.  Those women’s magazines say to shop smart and play to your good points.”

      “Why are you reading women’s magazines?”

      “Uh… I… find them.”

      “Now the knickers make sense.”    

      “No!  I may, just may, have taken a peak at one that got left behind on one of the clerk’s desk while they weren’t looking.  Big headline about shopping for the new season and… it drew me in.  I blame witches.”

      “Always a safe bet.  So good points… sorry, I can’t think of any.”

      “An eel would be more help than you!  Come on… I want this to go well.”

      “Ok…sorry.  Ok, I guess your hair’s nice.  Distinctive.”

      “Yeah, I thought about that, too.  Maybe a black shirt?  Really make it pop?”

      “Black or… what’s that wine-y color?”

      “I think it’s called wine.”

      “Starts with a B.”

      “Burgundy!”

      “That’s it.  That’s nice with old man’s hair.  Though you do good nice in black.”

      “I do?”

      “Oh yeah… you wore that black pullover last time we had drinks and it was very nice.”

      “Great!  One black pullover…”

      “Nope.  Not for a date.  At least not the pullover part.  Or button-less of any kind.  Not on you.”

      “What’s wrong with me?”

      “Nothing, but he’ll expect it.”

      “What?  Why?”

      “Because you look the type of person that wears no-button shirts on dates.”

      “That’s insane!”

      “It’s very sane, actually.  You wear your weary button-ups at work, so it stands to reason you’d go the other way for a date.”      

      “But isn’t that a good thing?”

      “For most people, yes.  But this is Mycroft we’re talking about!  The more little surprises you can give him the more impressed he’ll be.  So, one button-up for you.  Plus, it’ll make your chest more… chesty.”

      “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

      “Look, at our age things get a little… less defined.  Add some looseness and it looks like you’ve got more chest in your chest.”     

      “Ok… now I get it.  And Mycroft’s so tall and narrow that he might just like someone with a little contrast to that _and_ with pecs to die for.”

      “Which you don’t actually have.”

      “I so do!  Well, I sort of do.  Better than most men my age, at least.  Anyway, if we get to the point of pec peeking, he’ll be in a relaxed mood and I’ll be doing plenty of things to take his mind off any semi-false advertising.”

      “So, buttons?”

      “Buttons.  And either black or burgundy.  Burgundy might be sexier.  More… sumptuous.”

      “I don’t think that’s the right word.”   

      “Sounds good, though.”

      “Yeah, it actually does.”

___

      “So, one black and one burgundy.”

      “I think it really _is_ more wine, now that I see it in better light.”

      “Don’t start, John.  I had to fight that bloke for it and I’m not having you spoil my prize.”

      “Fine.  You make a grown man cry and I can’t have any fun with it.  You’re buying lunch, just so you know.  Now… trousers?”

      “What’s wrong with my usual ones?”

      “Do you have any that haven’t seen a crime scene and had bits of crime scene on them?”

      “Next on my list… trousers.”

      “And isn’t it lucky were in trouser land.  I’ve got to say… grey.”

      “I concur.  A really sexy grey.  Charcoal, that’s the color.  It’ll go with either the black or the brine.”

      “Brine?  That’s salt water.”

      “It’s burgundy + wine.  And it’s _my_ word so sod off if you don’t like it.”

      “Greg, do you need to sit down for awhile.  They have those little husband benches scattered about the ladies’ area and I can pretend to be your wife if it feels strange to use them otherwise.”

      “You’ll make someone a lovely wife, someday, John.  I think Sherlock would adore seeing you puttering around the kitchen wearing a little apron.  And nothing else.  Food for thought.”

      “Thanks for that.  I’ll give it a try tomorrow at breakfast.  Kind that ties in the back so the string dangles down in a provocative fashion.”

      “Give me a moment to wash that image out of my brain.”

      “Hey, it’s just a tight, muscular arse being tickled by a soft piece of fabric.  Nothing upsetting there.  And speaking of arses, I think you should get a pair of bum-cuppers.  In charcoal.”

      “I _do_ have a nice backside.”

      “Mycroft thinks so.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “There _is_ no excuse for you, but putting that aside, it just occurred to me that one time, and I thought I was imagining things, but I swear I caught him staring at your arse.  Seriously, I thought I was seeing things, but now I know I was right.  He was giving your bum a long look and I guess he liked what he saw.  So make sure you show it off on your date.”

      “Man’s got good taste.  And all that walking and a bit of football… my calves are brilliant.  Put me in shorts and traffic stops so people can get a good look at them.”

      “Well, no shorts for you right now, Mr. Humble, but if all goes to plan your calves should be part of your all-naked-all-night display of aged sexual gymnastics.  So… some tight-arse charcoal trousers… that pair on your left might be a contender.”

      “You might be right; I’ll try them on.  Hey… what do you think Mycroft’s backside is like?”

      “I’d give it some thought if I wanted to give myself a brain tumor.”

      “No, really… I bet it’s the perfect size to just fit in these hands of mine and… I just know it’s going to be pert.  It’s a stupid term, but that’s the one to use.”

      “Don’t mind me, I’m just standing here thinking of kittens and puffy clouds.”

      “You’re a doctor!  You’ve seen more arses than anyone!  Think of this as a consult.”

      <…………..>

      “You can do it, John.  Help a mate out.”

      “…….It’s definitely pert.”

      “I knew it!  And it’s all mine!”

      “You haven’t even had dinner with the man!”

      “Formality.   I think you should follow us and get a couple of photos from behind so I can see what our bums look like together.  Match made in heaven, I bet.”

      “Do not involve me in your kinky going’s on, Greg Lestrade.  You want a rear view, get your crime scene photographer to take a few snaps.  Now are you going to try those on?”

      “Yeah and while I’m at it, check around for any others that look arse-flattering.”

      “They should put that on the label.  Buy these to give yourself a sexy rear.”

      “I think they do on the lady ones.”

      “They have all the luck.”

      “Yeah, but that’s why I’ve got you.”

      “Bastard.  And I _will_ be getting all the details of your big night out, right?  Play by play and blow by blow?”

      “I don’t kiss and tell.”

      “Shag and tell?”

      “Oh yeah, I’ll spill like a three year-old’s juice cup.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we move one step closer to The Date...

_No, sir.  Out of the question._

_I disagree._

_I’m cancelling it._

_You most certainly are not!_

_I most certainly am!  Sir._

_I do hope you enjoy your new career in food delivery.  I shall award you a bicycle in your redundancy package._

_I do hope you enjoy losing any chance for a successful evening when you arrive at the Detective Inspector’s flat in a chauffeured car and your casual date plans explode like novelty pen your brother sent you for your birthday._

_We were never to mention that again._

_Then you understand the seriousness of the situation, sir.  Drive yourself or don’t even bother wearing clean pants under your new clothes because no one but **you** will ever know._

So here he was, strolling through the second warehouse where various government-owned vehicles were stored, in search of an appropriate choice for which to escort the delectable Gregory Lestrade on their rendezvous.  Not that he would admit his PA had any semblance of a point, but it might, _might_ , set the wrong tone for their evening to arrive in his normal mode of transportation.  And the proper tone was _exceedingly_ important.  Relaxed, amiable… small, vibrant touches of promise… deliciously sweet licks of tension… heavy strokes of sensual abandon…

      “That one.”

Anthea would immediately be enrolled in a course for learning to more acceptably choose the timing of one’s interruptions.

      “I think not.”

      “I think _so_.  It’s perfect.”

      “It is an older, silver Audi.  There is nothing in that description that meets any accepted standard for the term ‘perfect.’”

      “This would go more quickly, sir, if you simply obeyed.”

      “And what odds do you calculate for that eventuality?”

      “Higher than your chance for needing to come in late tomorrow if you don’t pick the right car.  Sir.”

It would be more soothing to converse with a banshee.

      “I find it unutterably plain.

      “It’s not too large or too small.  It’s not too old or too new.  It’s not too bland or too colorful.  It’s not too cheap or too expensive.  It’s respectable but not stodgy.  It doesn’t say you didn’t try or you’re trying too hard.  See?  Perfect.”

Well, if she insisted… it was easier to agree than continue the argument, in any event.  Not that the insufferable woman’s analysis had any merit.  It did not.  It was bereft of sense.  Pathetic, actually.  The fact that, now that he turned his mind towards the problem, he realized his Gregory would present as an exemplar of mature masculinity stepping out of the vehicle whose brilliant silver coloring excellently complemented the shade of his exquisite hair was entirely immaterial.

      “If only to cease this tiresome activity, I shall acquiesce.”

      “I’m glad you’re listening to reason.  And I think… that one for Date #2.”

Mycroft blinked twice and was surprised that, yes, his eyes were not deceiving him.

      “The Lyonheart K?”

      “Yes.  Sir.”

      “You do realize it is valued at over £500,000.  It was seized, if I remember, in some tawdry drugs business.”

      “And the two of you will look marvelous in it!  Just don’t mention the drugs part.  You’ll be _stunning_ when you arrive at the charity performance.  Sir.”

If one could blink one’s ears, Mycroft would be vigorously implementing the action.

      “Charity performance?”

      “Oh, did I forget to remind you?  You are scheduled to attend a charity performance of _Phantom of the Opera_ and the reception afterwards.”

      “You most certainly _did_ fail to remind me!  I abhor Andrew Lloyd Weber!  His so-called compositions are disasters of the musical world!  The annals of music history will forever scribe his pages in invisible ink to shield future generations from his…”

      “Mr. Lestrade enjoys him very much.  Sir.”

      “Oh.”

      “And he has a particular fondness for that specific piece.  A review of the surveillance tapes will document no fewer than six times he has listened to a recording of it while relaxing in his flat.

      “I see.  And now, somehow, I am on the guest list for this charity event.”

      “No, you _and_ Mr. Lestrade are on the guest list.  I took the liberty of making the necessary arrangements.  I can send your regrets if you prefer, but I think Mr. Lestrade would be quite taken by the spectacle.  And you just might _get_ taken by Mr. Lestrade after the spectacle.  In a tuxedo.  Sir.”

Damn.  Now it was impossible to say no.  His loins would never forgive him.

      “Oh very well… for Gregory, nothing is too large a sacrifice.”

      “Very romantic of you, sir.  Now, you have just enough time to return home, have a brandy, get dressed and leave to pick up Mr. Lestrade.  I’ll have the car delivered to your residence immediately.”

      “Excellent.  Then I shall depart.”

      “Good luck, sir.  Not that I think you’ll need it.”

      “No?”

      “He smiles after you end a call with him.”

      “He does?”

      “And it’s one of _those_ smiles.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Do I have to draw you a picture?  Sir.”

      “Ah.”

      “Yes.”

      “I may be in late tomorrow.”

      “I’ve already planned for it.”

__________

      “Why are you talking to me?  Seriously, Greg, I have no idea!”

      “Come on, John!  Help me out here!”

      “Just order whatever looks good!”

      “How the hell do I know if it looks good if I haven’t ordered it yet?”

      “You’ve got a computer, you stupid copper.  Use it.”

      “I’m not googling Moroccan food while on duty.”

      “I will wager you ten nights at the pub, on me, that’s not the worst thing you’ve googled on the job.”

      “I _am_ a professional, you know.”

      “Not a bit of protest.  I win the bet!”

      “No!  I mean… this isn’t helping!  Look, I just want something safe that won’t be too spicy or too garlicky or too bean-y… you know!”

      “You don’t want bad breath, acid reflux or gas.”

      “Yes!”

      “You’re old.”

      “Hey!  You should be taking notes.  You’ll be my age soon enough and you’ll wish you had the benefit of my examples so you don’t completely chase off any prospective dates.”

      “When I’m your age, I plan to be in a solid relationship with a decent person.”

      “Oh, so you’ve gone completely off Sherlock.   Good to know.  Molly and I were going to go in together to get you two a nice cadaver table and matching autopsy tools for a wedding gift, so that’ll save us both a bit of cash.”

      “I’m making a rude gesture at this very moment; be a mate and picture it in your mind, will you?”

      “I’m too busy for that.  Now help me avoid embarrassing myself at dinner.  I want this to go well, not be another one of my typical disasters.”

      “Yeah, the less said about those the better.  What was the last one?  Something with real estate, right?”

      “Oh god… kept trying to sell me a house all through dinner.  Save me from dating hell, John!”

      “Why don’t you just call the restaurant and ask?  I’m sure they deal with dietary restrictions all the time and…”

      “Sure… I’ll just ring them up and say I’d rather not offend my date’s nostrils with my body’s bad manners and can they recommend something that’ll raise my chances of getting sex before the sun rises.”

      “Well, nice to see you’ve got high hopes.  But yeah, if you’re really worried, then that’s the best suggestion I’ve got.”

      “What if they recognize my voice?”

      “Have you called them before?”

      “I mean at dinner!  Mycroft said it’s a small place and if I call now, they could recognize me as the old, smelly, gassy man on the phone and won’t that be the nail in my coffin!”

      “What do you think they’ll do?  Put a little sign next to your plate?”

      “I’m not ruling anything out at this point.”

      “You’ve gone mental!”

      “I’m just being cautious!  You call them.”

      “No.”

      “You call them and be all stinky and farty and find out what’s safe to order.”

      “I’m hanging up now.”

      “I swear you are the worst friend in the universe and I’m including the little pisser at school who used to drop rocks in my milk.”

      “Why don’t you just calm down before you stroke and I have to pay good money for flowers when I visit you in hospital.  It’s going to be fine, Greg.  It’s _all_ going to be fine.  You’re going to have a pleasant-smelling time, Mycroft won’t try and sell you a house, and you just might end the evening minus those new clothes you bought and reminding yourself to call me for advice on muscle creams.”

      “I’m going to do some stretching when I get home, just in case.”

      “For god’s sake, don’t pull anything!  I’m _not_ racing over to your flat to give you an injection so you can make it through the night without limping.”

      “That’s true.  I’d prefer to save my limping for after the night’s over.  I’ll take it easy, don’t you worry.  Crap and if I don’t leave now, I won’t have time to get ready to even get to the limping part.”

      “Shower, clothes, shot of whiskey, mouthwash…. how long can that take?”

      “And now we reveal to the studio audience why John Watson is the one person in London with a sadder love life than me.”

      “At least I won’t be spending my night holding in a gut full of gas and hoping my smile doesn’t look like I’m in pain.”

      “Let’s see how much you’re smiling when it’s been weeks since I’ve let Sherlock work on a case and he’s chasing you around your flat trying to take a urine sample or make you drink something he says he’s mostly sure isn’t poisonous.”

      “Definitely hanging up now.”

      “Call you tomorrow?”

      “Oh yeah – can’t wait for the details.”

__________

A nice brandy was the perfect libation to soothe his rather jagged nerves.  It was positively ludicrous that a man of his age and position was feeling like a pitifully-awkward schoolboy embarking on his first romantic encounter, but he would not shame himself by lying about his level of confidence.  Compared to the valorous, rugged, vibrant and exhilarating Detective Inspector he _was_ an awkward schoolboy.

Brandy and a bath.  A warm bath was the ideal vehicle for relaxing recalcitrant muscles into a more agreeable state of suppleness.  It would be a terrible shame to find the night taking an acrobatic turn and suddenly require an emergency phone call be placed to his personal physician to ascertain the best method to de-contort a body locked in rigor-like rigidity.  And no mention would be made of the small amount of bath oil he had added to the water to subtly perfume the room with aromatics scientifically proven to promote relaxation and good spirits.  Anthea had gone to the effort to gift him with it was only good manners that he use it at least once as a gesture of gratitude.  It would not do to be anything less than gentlemanly.  It _was_ rather nice, truth be told, now that he had eased his mind enough to notice…

Good.  Everything laid out and waiting for him.  Though who chose those appalling shoes?  Oh, that would be him.  Well, the identity of the chooser was not relevant to their appalling state and it absolutely must be rectified.   A quick perusal of his closet and… good heavens.  Why in the world did he have so many shoes?  Exactly when did the surgery occur that transformed him into one of those females on the television who erected veritable altars of shoes in their homes?  This was not the proper scenario for a man wishing to present as an appealing option for continued romantic association. How would Gregory react should he bear witness to this shame?  He would likely flee in fear he had taken to bed a shoe fetishist for they were never presented well in televised dramas and were always viewed with suspicion by the authorities.  The shoes would be burned immediately.  Immediately, that is, after he had chosen a suitable replacement for the appalling ones sitting mockingly on the floor by the bed.

Shoe issue sorted.  Appalling ones thoroughly chastised, more appropriate ones elevated to take their place and waiting patiently to serve.  Now it was his trousers.  Simple and black, but he had been assured that they produced the proper silhouette for his legs and… regions somewhat north of his legs.  And they fit properly.  The last time he had made an attempt at casual wear was for an outdoor event at which he orchestrated an impromptu discussion about a missile treaty.  At the time, he had sported a few additional pounds and the trousers he had chosen forced a conscious effort on his part towards holding back those additional pounds from public view when he was required to remove his jacket.  However… now that he remembered… it was during that period that he first noticed the Detective Inspector casting an admiring glance in his direction.  It was only the second or third time they had met and the first that they had spent any appreciable time in each other’s company, though they exchanged but a few words.  And Gregory most certainly looked upon him with favor.  Physical favor.  The sort of favor that signifies the favoring glance is being accompanied by a mental undressing of the person being favored.  That boded quite well for those small times when he allowed himself an extra bit of chocolate during a particularly grueling and protracted matter of government.  For those occasions, it truly did help sustain his mood when he had steady supply of chocolate with which to indulge.

Shirt.  Oh, that did look nice.  The tailor had performed flawlessly, as always.  Such a flattering cut and color.  The fabric… a sheer delight to touch.  And a small amount of rubbing was very pleasant both for the hand on the shirt and the skin beneath it.  This could be an excellent experience if the hand in question was large and slightly rough and thick of finger and… yes quite enough of that.  Time to file a mental note that, regardless of the arousing sensation of his shirt, it was not proper to stroke one’s chest in public, even if daydreaming about the breathtaking person sitting across from one at a small, candlelit table.  Concentrate, instead, on the appearance of the shirt.  Were his athletic efforts clearly and lovingly displayed?  Why, yes, they were.  The gentle lines of his fledgling swimmer’s muscles tantalizingly peeked through when he moved and the close fit emphasized marvelously the length of his arms, which further emphasized the elegance of his hands.  His eyes certainly appreciated the enhancement from the shirt’s hue, as well.  He had never found his eyes particularly noteworthy, but, apparently, he had never worn the correct color for them to fully reveal their attributes.  And what fine attributes they were…

Hair.  Bold or safe?   There were merits for both.  His usual style was quite adequate, perhaps even preferable for an evening out as it showed attention to the details of appearance.  However, something less… sculpted… might display a playful side.  Not that he had one, but the small misrepresentation would not be lethally dishonorable.  Now, if ever, was the time for compromise.  Exactly… remove that small top bit… exactly one-half of his normal quantity of hair product to apply to his hair and… ah.  Some small amount of motion and a fuller presentation, however it would not break ranks and begin to wind unhappily-wavy tendrils along his skull.  Perfect.  Thus far, preparations could be deemed a success.  There might be hope for him, after all.

__________

There was absolutely _no_ hope for him!  Of course the moment he tried to leave work, he got waved down for a brief meeting and now here he was a full… 15 minutes behind schedule!  Mycroft would be here in a little over an hour and he was years away from being prepared.  First step… whiskey.  No, bad idea.  He didn’t have any whiskey.  Scotch!  He had lots of that.   Two fingers of good… passable… scotch and now… sip scotch in the shower.  It wasn’t a skill everyone could claim and that’s why he felt damned special.

Shower… beautiful, beautiful shower.  The nice thing about this flat was that the hot water seemed limitless.  If he stayed in here until the hot water ran out he’d have to greet Mycroft at the door in a towel.  Which wasn’t a bad idea, actually.  Sweet and to the point.  And no worries about spilling food on himself, getting a case of breath of death, drinking so much beer he got pissed and stupid… but that might be a bit forward.  Anyway, a quiet dinner-and-drinks night with someone who he could actually talk to and laugh with wasn’t something to miss.  This could be a _lot_ of fun if things went to plan and that was even before they were both too sweaty and exhausted to even _say_ the word ‘fun.’  Though he wasn’t going to get ahead of himself.  Not a bit.  By no means was he taking extra time to wash certain areas and use that little brush he got yesterday to give his feet a thorough scrubbing in case they had some shoes-off conversation between beers and bed.  Not that he was going to make assumptions, of course.  But maybe a little extra _grooming_ might not be a bad idea.  No use being untidy.  It was disrespectful.

Clothes.  Smart idea to hang them up in the kitchen because nothing in his closet ever made it back out without looking like a hundred year-old grandfather’s face and he didn’t have the time to shake out all the wrinkles.  His evening-out gear was waiting wrinkle-free and giving him a confident wink as a bonus.  And, right there on the hanger, it looked amazing but this had to be done in order.  Layer 1 – pants and socks.  Silk and silk.  Which felt weird.  But good.   Normally, he relied on honest, working-man’s cotton, but yeah… good.  He’d put a lot of thought into it and went with black boxers because no one said you had to jump straight from dinner to naked and John said he looked good in black.  Not that he thought for one minute that John Watson pictured him naked but for black silk boxers because he’d have to vomit if he did and then he’d have to brush his teeth again and he did NOT have time for that.  Now, trousers… bum-cuppers ahoy!  Oh, they _did_ make his arse look nice.  Firm and full and fondle-worthy.  Nuzzleable, even.  You could use his bottom as a pillow and get the best night’s sleep of your life!  Mycroft was going to think he was a clumsy excuse for a human being the number of times he was going to drop something just so he had to bend over to pick it up.  First thing tomorrow, he was going back and getting a few more pairs of these beauties in different colors to keep the bumluscious view fresh when Mycroft came calling.

And one burgundy or wine or whatever color shirt that was and… oh.  Ok… ok ok ok.  That looked good.  Much better than when he tried it on at the shop.  The fuller cut was the right way to go, too.  With the slim style trousers, he definitely had that definition thing John was talking about.  Nice, broad chest just like a man in his prime should have.  That was it… good, strong man at the peak of his sexual prowess all wrapped up in a burgundy-wine package.  And… hmmmm… chest hair or not.  On one hand, what prince of sexual prowess didn’t have some impressive chest hair to show?  On the other, there wasn’t much that _was_ impressive about his chest hair.  It was there.  It was sort of dark, sort of grey.  Sort of... _sort of_.  Stay buttoned up for now.  It looked neater, anyway, and it wasn’t proper to be _too_ casual for a first date.  Yeah, that looked right.  Maybe later, he could do the unbuttoned-to-the-navel-pirate-captain-on-the-prow look, but that probably would need to wait until someone’s long, slender fingers were here to do the unbuttoning…

Hair.  Product or no product?  If there was any humidity tonight, every strand of his hair would be laying  flat on his head as if they’d been shot dead.  He’d look like he’d just come out of the shower, and not in a good way, so a bit of help was needed.  Now, if he was 20 years younger, he could put a bit of spike into it and… no, he’d have to be nearly 30 years younger for that.  Wasn’t that a depressing thought… it’d been a _long_ time since he’d had a sexy, rebellious hair style and… well, it was damned time he had it again!  But maybe not quite so rebellious.  Just a little attitude to make things interesting.  It’d take more product that he usually wore, but he could put some kick into his hair and… yes!  That was the look!  Just like a secret, filthy wink that made your nethers tingle.  As long as they weren’t touring the city on a motorcycle, he was fine.  Oh lord… Mycroft Holmes on a bike.  Covered in black leather with a big, growling beast between his legs.  Just a little mental photo manipulation and that big, growling beast could be him and wasn’t that a pretty picture?

Shoes nice and shiny, teeth glittering white, face smooth and not a nick to spoil the view… and he’d gotten it all done in… just time for another quick finger of scotch.  Not too much, though, they had beer to look forward to.  Really good beer, too, he had no doubt.  The kind you couldn’t bring yourself to drink like a pint at your local, but the kind you sipped and savored.  Have a drink and enjoy the fun a moment before you cleared the deck for the next one.  The kind that made the moment less like having a few out with a mate and more like a time to let down your hair _and_ your guard and open up a bit to the person you were with.  That was when you answered questions a little more honestly and asked ones that were a little more bold.  You took a few more ‘accidental’ touches and made yourself available to get a few more of your own.  That’s when the top button of a shirt got undone as a little offer and an invitation for a coffee came back as an acceptance.  And couldn’t forget…

<………. _knock knock knock_ ……….>

Couldn’t forget that Mycroft was about to arrive and thank god you never actually poured yourself any scotch because your breath would smell like a drunk’s and that was worse than garlic if the date hasn’t started and… calm down.  Looking good, smelling good, feeling good… it was all good.  It was going to _be_ good.  As soon as he could convince his feet to actually start moving to answer the door…


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wrap this up with this chapter, but I think these two need a little more time to properly marinate...

_Oh god._

_Oh mighty god._

_No._

_No… please mighty god, no.  It was too… spectacular._

Lestrade finally got his feet moving and when he opened the door he felt like he’d been struck by lightning.  A suit… that’s what he’d been expecting.  Maybe something more casual than what the man normally wore or maybe the tidy button-up and jacket look, but _this_ …  this was… this was that completely-cannot-exist moment of really having your breath taken away when it was almost worrying that the massive electric spark that just ran up your spine was the finger of a higher power pouring into you that perfect feeling of knowing that this was _the_ person.  That special _the_ person that you were still calling _the_ person thirty years from now.  But, no.  That was just silly.  That sort of thing didn’t happen to tired old coppers just going out for a date.  With the most handsome man he’d ever seen.  Who had a body that his suits… ok, Mycroft looked like a long lick up you inner thigh felt when he wore those suits, but this…  Legs that didn’t stop and a body that you wanted laid out naked on dark, silk sheets so you could just sit back and admire what had to be miles of creamy skin and lean muscles that an artist would kill to recreate on his canvas.  And he was going to dinner with this man.  Please oh mighty god, let Mycroft at least think _he_ looked passable…

Mycroft breathed deeply to calm his nerves after he knocked on the door of Lestrade’s flat and felt the soothing effect blasted away with a shotgun spary of pure electricity when the door opened and he saw the person he’d come to meet.  He’d expected… he’d expected a stunning presentation, without question, but this… this was a vision that eclipsed everything in his mind and left him incapable of processing any thought beyond the beauty that was filling his eyes.  And it was infiltrating him… already he could feel the urge to see that beauty becoming, not a desire, but a need.  A need to not allow a day pass without experiencing this sensation.  The man was exquisite… the strength of his legs so strikingly presented in rich charcoal trousers and the powerful chest swathed in the most agreeable wine colored… oh, buttons.  Not a bit of his mental fortitude could stop his fingers twitching with an incredible want to make slow and sensual work of unfastening each one to gradually bring the prize they were hiding into full view.  And that want extended to performing the task each night before bed and doing the reverse each morning before a day of work commenced.  Foolish.  This was utterly foolish.  He was a middle-aged, established man and such men did not fall into a lasting and devoted affection in the blink of an eye.  But what a splendid sight graced that eye… and such a wicked turn his Gregory had affected on his lovely hair.  It was positively enchanting…

      “Ummmm…”

      “Yes… that is to say…”

      “I… Hi?”

      “Good.  Quite.  Hello, Gregory.”

      “Right.   Hi, Mycroft.  You, uh… you look… amazing.”

Amazing?  Was Gregory ill?  He looked the plain peahen compared to the resplendent peacock who stood in reach of his still-twitching fingers.

      “You are too kind, especially since your appearance is such that I now fear the fashion industry shall spirit you away to model their finery and leave our streets devoid of the protection they so sorely require.”

A model?  Mycroft must have gone soft in the head.  You could take the tall, sophisticated man straight to a photographer and he’d be on the cover of every magazine in the world by morning.  And he got to look at that gorgeous Mycroft Holmes all night tonight...

      “Now it’s you that’s too kind.  So, we ready to go or…”

      “Of course.  Your chariot awaits and I will admit to a decided amount of hunger at this point.”

Not that the hunger was for food, but the Detective Inspector didn't need to be party to that little secret. For now.

      “Yeah, me too, actually.  Let’s get going.”

Food be hanged.  He was hungry for the delicious Holmesian morsel he was still staring stupidly at and knew, in very graphic detail, how he would go about consuming him when _if!_ he got the chance… and Mycroft really shouldn’t smile if he knew what was good for him.  They wouldn’t make it to beer if he kept smiling because his smile lit his face like a candle lit a jet-black room and christ almighty if it wasn’t the sexiest smile in the universe.  Oh look, they were actually walking.  Apparently his legs didn’t actually need his brain to follow directions if Mycroft was the one they were following along after. 

      “Hey, nice car!”

      “Ah.  I am delighted it pleases you.”

      “It does.  I was a little worried you’d show up with one of your chauffeur-driven stealth-fleet vehicles and I’d feel a prat dressed for an easy night out stepping into one of those beasts.  This is great!”

Anthea would _not_ hear of this.  Though she would.  She was inordinately sneaky… quite inappropriate for a professional woman.

      “Perish the thought.  Business is one matter, but personal issues are quite another.  I would never pay you the insult of according you anything less than my full effort on our first evening together.”

Oh… that may have sounded a little forward-thinking.  A little permanent… why had he and his cursed snoop of a PA not practiced conversing in a certainly-not-anticipating-retiring-together-to-the-Holmes-country-estate manner!

      “Well, don’t I feel special now?  And I bet she winds up nicely on the open road.  Audi’s have good engines for speed and they handle well, too.”

Beautiful.  What was he doing, trying to sell Mycroft the damned car?  He sounded like a bloody magazine ad.

      “Then I shall do my best to let the vehicle demonstrate its true colors.  You shall handle matters if the traffic division takes offense at my transgressions?”

      “I’ve got your back, don’t you worry.”

Gregory Lestrade would do well to not to unleash that dazzling smile on him one further time.  The Audi might not be overly large, but a very thorough ravishment could be undertaken within it and he would not feel the least bit contrite for his behavior.  The provocation was more than adequate…

__________

Mycroft took the very long way around to the restaurant and Lestrade hoped his mouth wasn’t hanging open the whole trip.  The man was lethal behind the wheel!  But in a good way.  How Mycroft learned to drive like the hero in a spy movie was something he had to find out and, maybe, find a way to get _himself_ a few lessons.  It was almost a let-down when the car was pulled into a space not far from the little restaurant, but… well, he had to be driven at home at some point and it probably wouldn’t be hard to encourage Mycroft to take his time getting back.  The bureaucrat looked to have really been enjoying himself in the driver’s seat…

Well… that was something he hadn’t done in some time.  And it was a terribly unseemly episode of, as they say, showing off.  However… it was exhilarating!  It was a rare event when he could indulge certain of his talents and it was obvious that Gregory found the experience very enjoyable.  The more his companion laughed and asked for more, the happier he’d been to comply.  It was a small shame that they had already planned their evening or he would be taking the surprisingly agile vehicle out of the city for an extended fantasy chase to amuse his dear… the Detective Inspector… but that was a certainly a possibility for another day…

The men officially concluded their car adventure and stepped out to walk towards their destination and Lestrade had to admit that if the lights weren’t on he wouldn’t have taken the place for anything but an abandoned space in a run-down neighborhood.  But, as they approached the door, he found himself stopping and just breathing in the intoxicating scent of exotic spices and artifacts of meals prepared by loving and talented hands.

      “Gregory?  Is something amiss?”

Mycroft’s brain was busily formulating a hundred contingency plans, but cautiously put a hold on the activity as he watched a new grin move slowly across Lestrade’s lips.  This one was… well, the only word to describe it was sexually-satisfied and he would not permit that phrase to enter his mind at this juncture, as he refused to spend the dinner hour attempting to hide visible signs of arousal under a tablecloth.

      “Nah, just taking a good sniff of the air.  It smells wonderful!  You can always tell the best places because they just draw you in with all the delicious smells.  I guess it’s possible to make food that smells good but tastes crap; I’ve never found an example, though.  I’m going to like this, I can already tell.”

How gracious of his partner in romance to praise his choice so ebulliently.  His last attempt at a social evening such as this had earned him the question as to why the establishment did not offer a coat room or a certain wine that was certainly not worth the nearly £200/bottle cost.  And truly, this locale _did_ offer highly palatable food.

      “I am glad you find it agreeable, even before you have sampled a bite of their cuisine.  Shall we explore in greater depth?”

      “We shall.  Lead on.”

__________

Oh yeah, this was a place that could become one of his regular stops.  Cozy and warm, dim and flattering light, smelled like heaven and everyone was smiling.  What could be better?

      “I have taken the liberty of sending ahead a bottle of wine for us to share.  It is an unusual vintage, but I think it shall complement our meal nicely.”

Mycroft beckoned the server, who brought the wine and poured out two glasses.  The elder Holmes would never admit to holding his breath while Lestrade took a sip, but, finally, he was allowed to continue breathing when his companion’s eyes lit brightly and he quickly took a second sip.

      “This is good.  Really good.  I don’t know a lot about wine, all the terminology and whatnot, but this hits all the right marks for me.  Brilliant, just brilliant.”

Grown men do not preen, so that certainly was not what Mycroft was doing.  He was… basking.  Honest praise without expectation of favor was a pitifully rare thing for him and if he took a moment to enjoy it, there was no shame in the fact.

      “I am very happy it meets your standards.  It is not a terribly expensive offering, but I find it pairs well with heartier meals.”

      “Then you’ll have to let me take the bottle home so I remember what it’s called.  This is the sort of thing I’d want for… you know those days that are just… ok, sometimes, when I actually have a day to myself and nothing’s pulling at my brain from work, I just open up a bottle of wine instead of my usual bottle of lager, pop down to the shops for some really good cheese and fresh bread and do a movie afternoon with great old films.  It’s silly, maybe, but it’s a nice way for me to relax and recharge my batteries.  This would be perfect with a strong, aged cheese…”

Wow.  How lackluster could he make his life sound?  Mycroft probably did his relaxing at the opera or a royal ball and here he was going on about sitting home alone watching the telly.  Greg Lestrade is just the most exciting man in London.  Everyone should want to date him.  Idiot.

Oh my… one’s toes should not curl at the thought of spending a day in such circumstances, but _his_ were and it felt delightful.  A long, quiet afternoon of cinema, good wine and cheese… he so rarely indulged himself in such a way, but it sounded heavenly.  Especially if he superimposed the image of his dinner partner into that picture… heavenly, then, would be woefully inadequate a descriptor.

      “What a rejuvenating experience it sounds.  And quite entertaining.  I rarely am able to find time to devote to my own, as you say, batteries, but I cannot think of a more pleasurable restorative than that which you have described.”

Bollocks.  Barge-sized, badly-bartered bollocks.  Oh Gregory, please find me romantically pleasing, not that I can spare you any appreciable time to celebrate our romance and you shall be left alone and neglected the majority of our days.  What a prize was the mighty Mycroft Holmes… verily, he was a white elephant.  Of mammoth-like proportions.

      “Really?  I would have figured you would have gone for the grander things.”

      “Heavens no.  I am required, at times, to participate in a large variety of what might be called grand activities, however, I most enjoy the smaller things that have personal meaning and in which I indulge solely because they bring me satisfaction.  I very much appreciate the quiet afternoon or evening with a good book or quality film.”

Ok, so him and Mycroft on a snowy winter’s night, snuggled up under a warm blanket on the sofa, watching some black and white masterpiece… not the time to think about that or he’d be really saying stupid things that sounded very forward and committing and this was their first date!  Stupid man… no fantasizing about how lovely the future could be _if only_ …

      “Glad to hear someone appreciates the important things in life.  And…”

The server stopped by the table and both men stared at each other, realizing they hadn’t given a single glance at the menu.

      “Gregory, do you require time to study the selections?”

Lestrade almost said yes, then took a breath and decided to be bold.  After all, if he looked at things properly, Mycroft was a man of his age group and, despite the very suave exterior, had to have some of the same problems old men had since the dawn of time…

      “How about I willingly defer to your _expertise_?”

How about, indeed.  And why don’t you simply reach under the table and stroke my nethers with your hands, as well using your voice and choice of words.

Ok, that little purr had been unintentional, mostly, but the slight shift in Mycroft’s features said it had hit a very happy mark.

      “I am honored to oblige.   Is there anything you must avoid?”

Lots, if he wanted to end the evening in bed with this gorgeous thing who probably was a tiger when you got his blood racing, but none of that was going to be made public or he’d _never_ get that tiger between the sheets.

      “No, no allergies or anything.”

      “Good.  Do you prefer a higher level of heat and spice or something more moderate?  You seem the type of enjoy a fiery flare to your meal.”

And it goes in just as hot as it comes out.  Not that he didn’t love it, but… well, love _was_ something you suffered for… but not tonight!  The stakes were too high for suffery love!

      “Actually, I’ve got a taste for something milder right now, if that’s ok.”

YES!  Maybe if he wasn’t a cop he wouldn’t have noticed the extremely slight shift of Mycroft’s expression into what he could not mistake as anything but relief.  An old man’s gut was an old man’s gut.  Not that they were old.  Or had guts.  They were mature and had extremely… huggable waistlines.  Well, he did.  Mycroft’s waist looked more lickable than huggable… maybe lick and add a hug.  Or hug then lick.  Any combination was fine, really…

      “Then I have just the thing.”

Mycroft rattled off a variety of dishes that Lestrade had never heard of, but didn’t worry about anymore.  Whatever arrived would be delicious and come without any unhappy consequences.

      “I must admit that I rarely choose hotter dishes when they are on offer, however, now and then I find myself with a taste for a bit of flame with my meal.”

      “Me too.  Once in awhile, there’s this great Thai place not too far from my flat, you see, and I get a couple of cartons of absolute dragon fire to bring home with me.  I sit there and my eyes are watering, my nose is running and it’s _so_ good…”

Oh just shoot yourself now and save everyone more embarrassment, you dumb cop.  Isn’t that a handsome picture?  Snotty, watery take-away boy in his grubby little flat…

      “If I may share, I have a particular location I frequent when I travel to Hong Kong that offers a chicken dish that I firmly believe properly emulates what must be the feeling of placing a glowing coal on one’s tongue.  Such is the rage of the fire that my body sends every bit of moisture I possess out to quench the blaze, yet I order the same item every time I visit the city.  I have learned, however, to have it delivered so that I may dine away from the public eye.”

Lestrade burst out laughing and was relieved that Mycroft chuckled along with him.

      “Yeah… wouldn’t do for the man who ruled the world to be choking and crying in front of his subjects.”

      “It would not do at all.  The rioting alone would severely compromise my schedule of beheadings and oppressing the serfs.  And I do prize an orderly schedule.”

Ok… so the man had a sense of humor.  Not that he had doubted it, but it was good to know for sure it really existed.  One more thing to add to his fantasy.  Cold winter’s night, blanket to snuggle under, black and white masterpiece of _comedy_ to laugh at and make their own jokes over… and it was always better when you had someone in bed that you knew you could laugh with.  White hot, intense sex was one thing, but if you couldn’t have a laugh when things took an awkward turn, then what fun was that?  Not the type of fun that kept you together for the long haul.  Not that he was thinking that way, of course.  That would be insane and his regular fitness reports confirmed that he was not, for the record, insane.

      “I agree.  Nothing aggravates me more than when the rabble are out being rabbley when I’m on my break.  Absolutely inconsiderate of them.  You should do something about that.”

      “I shall hereby abolish rabbley behavior during your breaks and lunch hour.  Shall that suffice?”

      “Nicely.  You’re too good to me, Mycroft.  I’m feeling all spoiled and pampered.”

And wouldn’t spoiling and pampering this entrancing man be a pleasure… nothing ostentatious or crass, of course, but little things.  Coffee in bed when he woke in the morning, a small note or sweet near his keys as he left for the day, a new book or recording he had longed for on the table near his traditional chair in their sitting room or study… of course there would be larger gifts for birthdays and anniversaries, holidays in beautiful locations where they could explore the art and culture of the area.   Not that he was making plans, of course.   That would be presumptuous.  Or prudent… the discussion would have to be had as to location of their future residence and it would be efficient to have options and arguments already prepared.  Not that he was making plans.  Or his brain was locked in any form of wish-based circular thinking.

      “Such is my eternal goal.  Now, do tell me about your day, Gregory.  I assume that a police career is an exciting one and you must have a wealth of tales to tell.”

Sure.  Lots of tales of slogging through the rain and the mud and the mountains of paper on his desk in hopes that they might, _might_ , actually catch the person they were chasing.  But the slogging and thinking and putting together the pieces was exciting in its own way.  When everything came together and they could slap the irons on a truly nasty piece of work… that was a rush.  And, now and then, there was the moment of real danger to really put the wind up your skirts.

      “I may have one or two.”

      “Then regale me.  If I am to hold back the rabble, the least you can do is tell me stories.”

      “Call me Scheherazade.”

      “If that excites you, I most certainly shall.”

His hearing must have gone off, because he had just heard something he was quite certain his mouth would never pronounce at this early stage of romantic negotiations.  It was absolutely lacking in strategy or couth and that was most certainly not him.  The restaurant must be haunted.  A vengeful spirit of a betrayed lover must haunt the premises, taking delight in rending asunder blissfully contented couples.  Not that they were officially a couple, but the premise was still sound.  This must be the very table where their unscrupulous partner slipped poison into their drink and they left the world in a pool of bitter tears.  Just as he was soon to do when he received his due chastisement from his... from Gregory.

      “Already I’ve got my pet name.  Guess I _am_ a special lad.”

 Could it be?  Oh… it could.  That was a _splendid_ example of Gregory’s luminous smile.  Apparently his little faux pas did not cause offense.  Quite the contrary, actually.  How very interesting.  And very gratifying…

      “Pish tosh, my dear.  We shall find something far more suitable for you and with far fewer letters to scribe on an affectionate note.”

Actually, if Mycroft could let something like ‘my dear’ slide off his tongue like honey dripping off a spoon, Lestrade was fine with _that_ as a pet name.  Ok, that was one thing sorted.  Nice to get the details taken care of early on.  And there was no doubting the undercurrents of the conversation.  Good to know he wasn’t alone in hoping for a rewarding evening.  Or more than evening.  Definitely morning, too.  Or life.  Who didn’t want a rewarding life?  And that was a general statement and in no way linked to the person sitting across from him who could just possibly be that previously mentioned _the_ person who could give him a _very_ rewarding life.  No, the two were not connected.  Not even in the slightest.  You had to be insane to think that and it had already been thoroughly established this evening that he was not insane.

      “Well, you give it some thought and I’ll tell you about the case I had last week where, in all honesty, someone murdered a mime.  You hear about that in trailers for terrible films, but think it’s completely daft until you’re staring down at one in a car park at 3:00 am.  It started like this…”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and marveled in the animated way the Detective Inspector told his tale.  His face was supremely expressive and his hands… the more excited he became, the more his hands were involved the story-telling.  They were both so caught up in the whirlwind of Scotland Yard magic that they scarcely noticed their dishes being placed on the table until the server refilled the wine glasses.

      “Yes!  Food’s here.  And… wow!  That really looks good.”

Not as good as the man poised to eat it, in Mycroft’s opinion, but he might be slightly biased.

      “I _does_ look appetizing.  A little toast to start our meal?  Perhaps… to enjoyable moments?”

      “And may they be many.”

On that, they both strongly agreed…

__________

Lestrade wondered when he’d last had such an easy time talking to someone.  It didn’t make sense, in a way, since he and Mycroft weren’t anything alike and came from two completely different places in the world, but it was like what each had, in terms of who they were, fit snugly in a little nook the other had sitting around waiting to be filled and not in a porny way, either.  Further, he was finding that they _did_ have things in common.  Small, sometimes silly things, but it added to the connection that he wasn’t about to deny was forming.  He’d felt it the first time he saw the tall, graceful Holmes standing at a distance talking to Sherlock and John.  Then they actually talked and it threaded deeper into his bones.  Now, actually sharing more than a few pleasantries, it was fully filling all the hollow spaces in his body and… he liked it.  This was warm and comfortable and thrilling and stimulating and funny and sexy and absolutely, positively dangerous.  All kidding aside, he could fall for Mycroft and fall hard.  He probably already was and there may be no stopping it, but it couldn’t be right.  It couldn’t be real, could it?  Could you suddenly just know that the person you were with was someone who could be there with you for decades and you’d never regret a day of it, even with the inevitable downs to pepper the ups?  But what if it was?  What if he was really that lucky?

Mycroft wondered when he’d last had such an easy time talking to someone.  His life revolved around the use of the word to command, convince, manipulate, dominate, threaten, inveigle, flatter… but it was practiced and purposeful.  Planned and strategic.  This… this was organic.  His words flowed as easily as water, without the usual mental roadmapping to steer the conversation in the direction he desired.  It was as if their words _were_ water from two streams meeting and mixing seamlessly into a deep and lively pool that fed new streams of words and ideas.  Then there were the countless tiny surprises… little things that came at him unexpectedly and that was positively unique in his life.  And highly welcome.  He felt as if they could be together for an eternity and never tire of conversation or the periods of quiet that punctuated the discussion, when they simply enjoyed the lull and the knowledge that the other person was near, enjoying it, too.  A Holmes lived by logic and analysis and both said that affection was a gradual thing.  One had to experience and evaluate the person in question and, with time, an emotional bond would form if all factors met the pertinent criteria.  But this was not logical.  It was not calculated or organized.  It was wild and fresh and jubilant and challenging and arousing and calming and a legion of other things that he could not help but embrace with open arms, though it was terrifying to do so.  He _wanted_ this and he did not want for things.  It was simply not his way, but he had wanted from the moment he saw the handsome figure scolding Sherlock for some bit of ridiculous behavior.  He had yearned from the moment they shared a greeting and exchanged names.  Now he felt something even more potent and had no idea what to think.  Adults in their prime did not believe in the magic of, in an instant, finding the one special someone to complete your life.  That was a fantasy of youth and he was far from a youth.  But, what if it were true?  He never considered himself a lucky man, but could he, this one time, actually be blessed by a little luck?

      “Ok, that was the best meal ever.  You were 100% right and I will forever take your advice on restaurants as gospel carved in stone tablets.”

      “I am happy to be of service.  I take great delight in finding examples of unique and impeccable quality and am eager to share my findings with someone who also appreciates quality for its own sake.”

      “Sounds like a thing.  I’m in.”

Oops.  There he goes again jumping forward on the game board without paying the fee.  And just watch, Mycroft _will_ ask…

      “I do apologize, but did you say ‘a thing?’ “

Of course.

      “A _thing_.  Like a ritual or a tradition that people do.”

      “Oh.  Then please explain further.”

Double of course.

      “Well, it’s like… ok, you find something amazing and tell me and I find something amazing and tell you.  And…”

Oh fuck it.  Go big or go home.

      “…and then we go and check it out together.  That’s what ‘a thing’ is.  Sort of.  At least for this particular thing.”

Mycroft blinked a few times and pondered his companion’s words.  Was it an offer?  Simply an explanation?  Gregory did say he was ‘in’ and that implied, did it not, that he would be a willing participant?  Again, he had to consider the phenomenon of luck.  What a marvelous idea!  Already his mind had records of numerous places and events he would greatly love to share with the Detective Inspector.  Snatches of brightness in the bleak world that reminded him why he labored as he did to keep that bleak world from fracturing into a thousand irreparable pieces.  To share them… with his Gregory… not that he should use the possessive _his_ at this time, perhaps, but now was not the moment to police his vocabulary, so the issue would be tabled.  Such a spectacular man he had found… so creative and so… oh, do not bat those chocolate-colored eyes at me, Gregory Lestrade or your virtue will suffer a savage and unbridled fate.

      “Did I ummm…. did that make any sense?”

      “It most certainly did and if you are willing I would gladly make it, as you say, a thing.  You are a man of ideas, Gregory, and I greatly admire that.”

Well now… apparently his stupid gaffe hadn’t sunk the boat.  In fact, he’d upgraded from a raft to a proper watercraft.  Mycroft wanted to go exploring with him.  With _him_.  With Gregory Lestrade who would show him dingy little shops with old LP’s and where they made the best dead plain vanilla ice cream in London and Mycroft already knew that’s what he’d show him because he was Mycroft bloody Holmes who knew everything and he _wanted_ that.  With him.  He needed a drink.   Maybe lots.  His skin was starting to catch on fire and he needed a relaxant or someone would have to quench that fire and he completely lacked the supplies he wanted for that degree of quenching. 

      “Then it’s a plan.  Yeah, this could be a lot of fun.  Thanks, Mycroft.”

      “It is I who should be thanking you.  Such an opportunity does not arise often and I would be foolish to allow it to pass me by.  Now, are we ready to commence the next portion of our evening?”

Not, Lestrade noted, the last portion.  Or final portion.  Next was very ambiguous and open-ended and ambiguity was officially his best friend right now.

      “Suits me.  If I sit here any longer I’m going to order again and won’t be able to roll myself away from the table when I’m done.”

      “Then, by all means, let us make haste.  I believe the proprietor shall soon commence plying us with sweet delicacies and I fear for both my willpower and my waistline should that occur.”

      “With that figure?  You could eat a wedding cake and not make dent in _that_ waistline.  Sleek… that’s a good word for it.”

Sleek?  Oh my… it was definitely time to depart.  To be taken into custody for public indecency would not contribute to the convivial atmosphere he was attempting to cultivate, even if he did not find the thought of publically claiming this prize of a man entirely off-putting.  Letting the city hear this beautiful creature screaming his name would certainly keep potential competitors at bay.

      “You are a flatterer, Gregory.  But I find that absolutely charming so do feel free to continue.”

Well, if permission was given, the rest of the night had some nice comments in store for the stately Mycroft Holmes.  What to start with?  Your tongue practically hypnotizes me when you lick a stray speck from your luscious lips?  No, too tangy for a first shot.  You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met and that turns me on as quickly as your sleek waistline.  Better, but without the turning on part.   Save that for later after a few beers.  Oh yeah… drinks were definitely going to be a good time…

      “I will.  There’s lots I can toss out so expect them to start coming soon.  The pub’s not far, right?”

      “Not at all.  An easy walk and I welcome the stroll.  It is a lovely night.”

      “Then let’s get started.”

Lovely night was right.  And the loveliest part was sitting across from him flashing a smile that Lestrade would be more than happy to keep seeing.  For a very long time…  Drinks were going to really going to be a special occasion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for drinks!

They could keep walking.  That wouldn’t be a problem at all because just having a casual stroll with someone you could talk to about stupid little things like the architectural details on a building or make up stories about what nefarious deeds had taken place inside those buildings was a magical evening all by itself.  Mycroft’s imagination was mind-blowing!  Talk about turning around the stereotype of the unimaginative, boring government man right on its head…  On top of a head full of knowledge, he was creative.  Funny, too.  And once you got him going, he laughed at things in a way that so honest and free and completely sexy and they could walk all night so he could be entertained by Mycroft’s talents and that was perfectly fine... because he sure wasn’t able to be the song and dance man Mycroft was.  Old, slow cop brain was able to put together clues given enough time, but not spin an old-fashioned gangster story out of thin air because there was a curtain fluttering in the window of a building up ahead of them.  The man was brilliant and just listening to him, watching him… transfixed.  That was the word.  He was transfixed and would happily tread every square inch of the city to stay this way because it was, frankly, a surprisingly wonderful feeling.

If only the walk could last until the sun rose again in the sky.  What an utter delight it was to meander along, taking immense pleasure in the small details of the world with someone who appreciated them as he did.  And the Detective Inspector absolutely appreciated fine details.  How keen were his observational skills and how skillfully he drew attention to the unique and unusual in the most mundane of objects.  It was all _he_ could do to supplement the moment with the cold and sterile facts his brain had accumulated over the years, though… though Gregory _did_ seem to enjoy the small tale of adventure he had woven when they noticed the cracked window and fluttering fabric of its curtain.  It was a foolish and ridiculous thing and he had no idea why he decided to turn his mind in such a direction other than… other than it felt like the right thing to do to make his Gregory laugh.  Which he did, with such a melodious sound that the world seemed to come to a standstill and the only thing that stood out as alive and vibrant was the glorious man he had somehow amused.  How eagerly he would continue their walk because there was no feeling as profound as being the one to make this spectacular creature happy, but they were at the entrance to their next destination, so this brief interlude was at an end.  Of course, another was about to begin…

__________

Wow.  That was pretty much the only word in Lestrade’s head when he stepped into the pub, which was all old, warm woods and gentle lighting and he fell in love in an instant.  It was exactly what he loved, but of a quality he normally didn’t seek out for fear of his wallet.  However, Mycroft wouldn’t lead him to a £10 a pop place, so this could be another addition to his growing list of stops that would make a long and difficult day somewhat easier to forget.  And the Detective Inspector gave himself an inner thumbs up that they found a great booth because booths were much more intimate than tables and hid a lot more goings on, which might be a factor later on in the evening.  And maybe his… date… didn’t notice the full-body shudder that ran through him when said date’s long-fingered hand rested momentarily on the small of his back to steer him to the booth.  A full-on frisson from a few seconds of contact.  That was pretty much screaming to the four winds that he was as touch-starved as a man doing 20 years in solitary and who the hell wants to take up with someone that desperate!  What a pitiful figure he was cutting… not that it had happened before with anyone else and he’d been through his share of dry spells in his life…

      “Mycroft this is amazing!  If had my luggage I’d be moving in.  And they have beer!”

It had taken the unrolling of efforts nearly equal to the launching of the first moon mission for Mycroft to find this particular establishment, but he regretted not a second of it, seeing the large and uncensored smile he was receiving as his reward.  Well, his second reward… the first had been the near-orgasmic tremor that ran through his… and that was an entirely non-possessive his… Gregory’s body when he briefly laid fingers on Gregory’s powerful back to direct their motion.  How utterly beguiling… oh, the fun he could have simply running fingers along this man’s naked body and watching it respond to his attentions.

      “I am delighted you are pleased.  The atmosphere is most relaxing and the patrons are of the mature and sedate variety, so one can actually enjoy a conversation with words that are audible to the ear.”

      “Now, that’s a plus.  Been in enough places where the standard level of noise was about that of being parked next to an airport with a plane taking off.  Can’t do much but yell ‘What?’ at people and nod a lot, even though you have no idea what you’re nodding about.  This is much better.  Perfect place to relax and have a nice drink with a… well, I’m not sure if ‘nice’ is the right word for you.”

ALARM!  Mycroft hoped his eyes weren’t telegraphing his ultra-red alert status, because that would simply add fuel to whatever horrifying fate his intended paramour was about to visit upon him.

      “Oh?  Pray tell, then, what is the alternative?”

Mycroft watched Lestrade sit back and scrunch his features into the most adorable pantomime of deep and penetrating thought.  At least he was about to be disemboweled by man of wit and presence.

      “Not sure yet, but nice is sort of… well, like a bowl of beans.”

Wit and presence that was slightly difficult to penetrate at this moment.

      “Pardon?”

      “Well, it’s good and familiar, but nothing really exciting about it.  Nothing you want for a special occasion or as a special treat.  It’s what you eat when there’s nothing else around.  It works, fills you up, but not what you would call special.  That’s what ‘nice’ is like.  It’s got no… zip.  That’s it – zip.  It’s zipless.  Just like beans.”

Oh god.  After avoiding any bean-related business at the restaurant here he was talking about beans while trying to give Mycroft a compliment.  Brilliant.  Really, could he be more perfect a catch?  If you liked beans, Greg Lestrade was the man of your dreams… the bean people should hire him to do all their ads… bean sales would skyrocket among the senior crowd…

      “How utterly charming.  Thank you, Gregory.  Such a well-crafted and creative compliment.  I anticipate with great eagerness what adjective you do finally decide upon.  You _will_ remember to share your musings, will you not?”

It was a clever mind that could paint a mental picture and make a meaning not only known, but highlight the layers and subtleties, as well.  So foolish of him to doubt the peculiarity of the description… And now it was his turn to tremble in excitement.  Nothing was more arousing than a truly clever mind.  Attached to a breathtaking body and heroically-handsome face.  Oh, how vapid… now he was falling into the trap of mental consonance… a clear sign of a depleted mind.  Soon it would be assonance and that would necessitate a quick and thorough termination of his life before his valiant escort was forced to do the deed himself.

      “Don’t worry about a thing.  I’ll even make a list if you’re not around at the time so I don’t forget anything to tell you when I see you next.”

There we go – firing out the arrow and hoping it sticks.  Come on, Mycroft… take the baton and run with it.  And please don’t be a mind reader so you know I’m the fucking king of mixing metaphors.

      “Both considerate and efficient of you.  I look very forward to reading your missive at our next meeting.”

Score!  Not even one sip of beer to grease the tracks, either.  A second date was officially a go, as if he hadn’t already sort of maybe kind of figured that out it was, perhaps.  Did this call for… yes, this was officially significant enough for one button to be undone.  And… ok, that felt a lot more comfortable, too.

Buttons.  How sexually predaceous… and such a knowing and willful flick of the fingers to free that button from its thread-bound confinement.  Was a response required?  Was a response _prudent_?  Oh, was the random trailing of his fingers over the silkiness of his sleeve as he enjoyed viewing the unbuttoning already a response?  The Detective Inspector seemed to believe so if the rich brown eyes which were following his fingers as if hypnotized by their motion was any indication.

      “Good… yeah, that works… that just works, yeah… hey!  Look, time to order.  Mycroft what are you having?”

Fantastically fumbled words.  Most certainly his response _had_ been made and it was having a very fortuitous effect on his Gregory’s state of mind.  Highly pleasing, even with the persistent mental alliteration…

BABBLER!  Big bone-headed baby-fied babbler!  What the hell?  Was his tongue possessed?  Ok, not going to think about tongues right now because the tiny peek he was getting of Mycroft’s as he studied the beer selection was not going to help with his babbling problem.  He’d probably wind up adding drooling to the babbling and Greg Lestrade does not end his dates in a nappy!  Steps must be taken… STEPS!

      “Given that I stood as arbiter of the choices for our dinner, would you care to do the honors for our beverages?”

ALREADY OUT OF STEPS!  Oh god… ok.  Ok - that’s a great word... about as helpful as ‘nice.’  Stupid common person’s words.  But beer is good.  Beer isn’t unfamiliar or gassy, usually, so he could do this.  Just get something safe and… open your goddam eyes and see that nice little banner that says ‘Not sure what to order?  Ask to be surprised!’  Stupid common person’s eyes.  Can’t even see writing when it’s screaming at you.

      “Let’s be adventurous.  Leave it up to fate.”

      “Oh… that does sound exciting.  Fate can be such a fickle thing, but it does offer felicitous tidings as often as foul, so I am very pleased with the decision.”

So, the Detective Inspector enjoyed exploration…  Sampling new things.  Well, the preparation of a very tidy list of his own was now on the agenda so as to offer his companion many items of potential exploratory interest.  And if many of those items concerned close, personal contact with particularly-sensitive body parts, then so much the better.

Lestrade was learning to read that little crinkle above Mycroft’s nose and right now it was saying all sorts of fun and nasty things that had nothing to do with beer.  But that was where they were going to start, so a smile to the server and a confident point at the surprise banner and a mental crossing of the fingers as the young woman moved away with a wink in their direction.

      “I would not suspect you to be of the nature to place yourself in another person’s hands so fully, Gregory.  Very interesting.”

Flirtatious.  That _was_ flirtatious, correct?  There was little in the Holmes genetic profile that spoke of an innate strength for flirtation; the family tree had many branches groomed and pruned with careful attention and negotiation, and completely devoid of romance.  Now, he must throw off the yoke of his ancestors and make himself as romantically presentable as possible.  And that meant flirtation.  Which he hoped he was doing appropriately.  This was Anthea’s fault.  They had not discussed the specific descriptors and measureable parameters for successful flirtation.  Lazy woman.  Her next performance review would be well-provided with a new column of checkboxes to document her failings as an advisor for interpersonal dealings of the most eye-toward-the-future kind.

      “Oh… I can’t say I go that way often, but give me the right incentive and reward and… a man can enjoy someone else’s hands, can’t he?”

That wasn’t over the top right?  The last thing he needed was for Mycroft to think he was one of those tie-me-up-tie-me-down types.  Not that it might not be fun to try.  Once.  Or twice.  Mycroft would look great in black leather… oh yeah, he’d already fantasized about that once tonight so that must be a sign.  Good, the lean slice of lusciousness would get to wear his gear more than once.  Mycroft would appreciate that because it was efficient.  See!  Efficient and sexy – Greg Lestrade was officially making a comeback.

      “And, of course, he might also like _being_ the hands sometimes, too.”

Goal!  Mycroft had been grinning a little and now he was grinning a lot and it was that sort of grin that said everything on the menu sounded good to him and there was maybe a possibility of black leather… or just one of his cock-drippingly gorgeous suits.  With shiny black shoes and leather gloves.  Was it too soon for a second button?  It probably was – they hadn’t even had a drink yet!  But…it _was_ getting a little warm in here and wasn’t it convenient that his sleeves had buttons, too.  And that his forearms weren’t anything to laugh at.

Did Gregory have any concept of the force of the gauntlet he had hurled upon the table?  Gently fondling each button on his sleeves then, teasingly as a burlesque performer, slowly granting views of his nakedness.  His strong and virile nakedness.  Forearms were now one of his designated arousing images.  The man was brash.  Bold.  _Hands on_ or _in hands_ … truly a tantalizing conundrum because both would be paradigm-making if Gregory was involved.

      “You do paint a thought-worthy scenario.  I greatly enjoy being provided with a provocative situation on which to ruminate.  Especially one for which the outcome is _desirable_ , regardless of the final choice one makes.”

Tennis was not at all his forte, but the ball had very successfully been lobbed back over the net and weren’t the Detective Inspector’s eyes wide and shining because of it.  And the added touch of inflection had drawn a very telltale hiss of indrawn breath from his companion.  Yes, this _was_ flirtation and he was doing an admirable job of it!  And the perfect thing to support his flirting had arrived – alcohol!  Already their inhibitions were lowering and he had no objection to hastening the process, especially in a palatable manner.

      “And our surprises arrive.  Very expedient, I strongly approve.  Two bottles and an extra glass for each of us, which is perfect to share our treasures.  How fortunate we shall be able to taste each other’s individual flavor.”

Damn that politician!  How was he supposed to sit still when Mycroft was spouting words like _flavor_? And the less said about _desirable_ , the better.  Zero mention would be made, too, of the feeling of Mycroft’s eyes stroking his arms from across the table.  Fluttery little touches that made the hair stand on end.  Or that might have been the _flavor_ thing.  Either way, his arms were getting excited and that didn’t spell good things for the rest of him!  Well… ok, it _was_ good things, actually, but not in a quality pub where sliding down beneath the table and giving the person across from him an hour-long blowjob would probably be noticed.

      “Yeah, smart move on their parts.  Here… you take half of mine.”

      “And you shall have your share of mine, which is… oh, very nice.  I do enjoy a lager than demands your attention and lingers on the palate until it obtains it.”

      “Let me see… oh yeah.  Wow, that makes a statement.  Sort of thing you drink by itself, no using it to wash down the food or snacks.  I like that.  Now… good, she brought water, too.  Ok… this one is… that’s like silk on the tongue.  Really, it’s like drinking a glass of smooth.  With a tiny touch of sweet, which I normally don’t like, but it works here.  Try it.”

If it was half as delicious as the expression on his Gregory’s face, this had to be an exceptional… it was.  It was a sensual and seductive slide along his tongue and that was not the image to allow to flower while Gregory was watching him savor the experience.  However… it was absolutely permitted, for a casual evening, to use one’s tongue to remove the trace of foam from one’s lip and… that was a sexually-tinged wriggle if one had ever been performed by human kind.  Apparently, the Detective Inspector enjoyed a particularly well-wielded tongue.

Put your tongue in your mouth, you bastard, or stick it down my throat.  You don’t have any other options, so pick one and pick it fast.  And it better be the former, because if you try and kiss me right now I’ll have you naked within thirty seconds and that’s not nearly long enough to collect the admission fees for other patrons to watch the show.  Smart man.  Nice that you listen to reason.  Goodbye nimble little friend.  We’ll visit later.  Now, one deep breath and one more sip of whatever was in front of them and drag the energy down a little.  Go slow.  Talk.  Get to know each other.  _Then_ rip each other apart in a sexual frenzy that’s intense enough to burn through to the center of the Earth like a nuclear core gone critical.

      “This _is_ , as they say, silky smooth.  Yet, not too hearty.  One could easily consume a second bottle without feeling overly burdened by its weight.  I must say, my dear, if this is the opening salvo, I am highly anticipating the rest of the battle.”

He was a dear.  It was official and Mycroft had better be purring that in his ear later as he… moving along to other things.

      “Me too.  This is dangerous – very comfortable place, great beer and the best possible company.  Time for a game?”

No, he was not feeling smug over being the _best_ possible company.  It was justifiable pride in properly entertaining his romantic partner.  Smug was for those who had not true and valid confidence.  Which he did.  In abundance.  He could write a book on romantic success and garner awards.  So long as he could avoid failing utterly at whatever diversion Gregory was proposing.

      “Game?  I am not at all averse to jovial diversions.”

      “Ok, this one’s easy.  I’ll ask you a question, then you ask me one.  They have to be questions that get one-word answers, unless it’s ‘what’s your favorite book’ or something, then you can give the whole title.  Sound good?”

This way, Mycroft couldn’t make his head spin with his wizardly wordcraft and he could actually get some concrete information out of the man.

Oh, how parsimonious.  A very direct method of soliciting data and analyzing the results of various forced-choice questions.  Formidable, but nothing less was expected of his Gregory.

      “I am intrigued.  Please, do take the first turn.”

      “Ok.  Favorite color?”

      “Purple.”

      “Really?”

      “Does that shock you?”

      “Actually, it does.  I’ve never seen a drop of purple on you anywhere.”

So the Detective Inspector had been cataloguing his appearance.  Very interesting… and highly flattering. 

      “It is rather an inappropriate color for my wardrobe; however, I find it greatly pleasing, nonetheless.  Perhaps its rarity in my environment _does_ help bolster its appeal; I had not considered that possibility.”

Mycroft loved purple… that was sexy.  Really sexy.  Everyone said blue or green or red, but purple was only for the special people.  The ones with a little decadence in their souls.  Perfect.

      “Could be or could be you’re just unique and like unique things.”

Another compliment.  How many diamonds could he gather this evening?  And each one _was_ a diamond, rare and precious and incapable of losing their luster…

      “Thank you, Gregory.  That is a perspective I shall cherish.  Now, may I know your first mode of employment?”

      “First job?  Sweeper.”

      “You cleaned?”

      “Local mechanic paid me to sweep up at the end of the day.  I was something illegal, like ten years old, but as I got older, I got to do more.  And got paid more, too.  Almost kept going and learned the trade, but other things got my attention, instead.”

Gregory with roguish smudges of grease on cheeks rough with day’s-end stubble; that was an image worth immortalizing on canvas.

      “And our citizens are eternally grateful, I am certain.  Now, another for me?”

      “Yep.  First pet?”

      “Sherlock.”

It was wrong for grown men to giggle, but apparently they were being possessed by pre-teen schoolgirls for the moment.

      “Bastard.  Now, answer for real.”

      “Then it would be ‘none,’ for we had no pets in our childhood and I do not have a lifestyle conducive to an animal’s happiness in my home.  I suppose I could lease a cat for those occasions when my demeanor must resemble that of a clichéd evil villain, however, it would have to be returned at the end of its tenure for the sake of its welfare and my furnishings.”

      “Now that’s something I want a picture of.  You in a huge chair, stroking a cat and doing that thing you do with your lips and eyes when you’re being enigmatic.  That would definitely be something for the wallet.”

Anthea would immediately begin seeking a throne and a white Persian so he could gift his Detective Inspector with his desired humorous photograph.  Which would live in his wallet.  Which was but two layers of cloth away from something Mycroft had no issue with his face being within two layers of cloth of.

      “I shall see about it at my first opportunity.  And for you… salty or sweet?”

      “Good one.  Salty.”

      “Not one for a visit to the bakery?”

      “Well, I didn’t say that.  It’s just that I’ll murder a bag of crisps long before I’ll touch anything sugary if I’ve got the choice of both.  But, I also have no problem following my nose on a lazy day off and buying whatever’s just been put out in the pastry case.”

And wouldn’t that be a fine off day… a quick run out for something with lots of sugar and custard or fruit or chocolate all wrapped in fine pastry dough, which would taste all the better when eaten off of… nope, not derailing his own train with lusty thoughts.  Or lusty _plans_.  Luckily, he’d finished this beer and a nod at the server had her bringing a new round.  More libido lubrication that would take him one step closer to actually living those particular plans of lust.

      “Here’s yours.  Favorite author?”

      “Jules Verne.”

Mycroft held his breath slightly, but saw his slight bit of worry was unwarranted as Lestrade let loose another of his wide smiles.

      “I love him!  Read him when I was a kid and just keep re-reading.  I probably have a go at one of his books at least once a year.“

      “And it is the same in my case.  I admired his ability to present a fantastical story with at least some of the trappings of a piece of non-fiction so one could easily pretend the adventure was something real and, therefore, possible.  I read little fiction in my youth and still claim that to be the case, but he has always stood as an exception.”

Books!  Ok, a bag of pastries and a quick trip to find a couple of books.  Warm days could mean a nice bench in a pleasant park where they could read and enjoy the weather.  Cold days could mean a comfortable sofa and thick socks, with their books and a hot cup of tea.  See, he could make non-lusty plans, too.

To stroll this exemplar of a man through the shops of his favorite book purveyors would be an immeasurable joy.   Already they shared a love of reading and a prized author.  How many more writers could they delight in, discuss, critique, debate… it was highly unfair that such a potent mind should be housed in as potent a body.  An embarrassment of riches, really.  And that treasure trove was simply begging to be plundered…

      “I believe… ah.  Our next battle has arrived.  And dark… I do appreciate a stygian brew on occasion.”

      “Best thing for what ails you.  And mine… ok, that’s not right.”

      “A disappointment?”

      “The opposite.  Just here, take a sip.  Don’t mind my germs.”

As if he would ever shy away from his Gregory’s personal flora.  Soon it would be _their_ happy bacterial family, in any event.  It was not possible to spend a lifetime kissing a person and not create a blissful microbial marriage of the mouth.  Oh, those pesky consonants again… a note must be made not to allow dear Gregory anywhere into his vicinity when there was serious work to accomplish or the government could easily topple.  And… no, this particular selection could not be allowed to venture close either…

      “Dear heavens… I am entirely at a loss to describe it with a single profile.  It is not chocolate, nor coffee…”

      “There’s spice in there, too, somehow.  But not.  Ok, this is the strangest, best thing I’ve had in my mouth.  At least, to date.”

Was that a licentious raise of the eyebrow?  Gregory, you do so love to tempt…

      “I did mean to inquire, are there boundaries for your recreation?”

      “Boundaries?”

      “Questions that fall across the line of acceptability?”

Did Mycroft realize just how much of his hand he showed with that bit?  Probably.  Probably knew exactly how much and that was his way of unbuttoning since he didn’t actually have buttons.  The cad.  The handsome, suckable, cad…

      “Not really.  And you can always pass.”

      “Pardon?”

      “If something’s off limits, you pass and the other person can ask another question or you just skip your turn.”

Oh, how utterly confusing.  Such convoluted rules for a mind as simple and rudimentary as his.  An example was certainly called for to achieve clarity.

      “Can you provide an, as they say, ‘for instance?’  I would hate to default and find myself removed from the competition for the sake of an innocent transgression.”

Innocent?  Mycroft Holmes didn’t know the meaning of the word innocent.  Couldn’t spell it on a bet, the saucy bastard.  Fine, here’s an example.

      “Makes sense.  For instance, you ask me what’s my, oh, let’s call it _measurement_.  If I didn’t want to answer, I could just pass.”

How crude.  Splendidly and invitingly crude…

      “I would not be likely to make such an inquiry since I already have my answer to that query.”

What?

      “What?”

      “It is rather a simple matter to determine and I… well, as I stated, it is a simple matter to determine.”

      “You’re full of crap.”

      “I assure you that is most certainly not the case.”

      “You’re the world’s biggest cargo ship full of crap.”

      “Such hyperbole.  And such an incorrect viewpoint.”

      “Ok then.  Prove it.”

And the bait is taken.

      “I would posit… this.”

Lestrade watched as Mycroft’s thumb and forefinger made a ring that widened and narrowed a few times until he settled on a diameter and smiled in triumph.  What a naughty man… a highly accurate, but very naughty man.  Though there was one thing…

      “Not bad, but…”

Lestrade reached over and gently pried Mycroft’s fingers apart until they made a slightly wider circle, then settled back and nodded.

      “There.  That’s better.”

Mycroft looked at his fingers and hoped his gulp wasn’t audible.  That was the epitome of perfectly grippable thickness.  And such a lovely challenge to take in his… Gregory Lestrade was complete villain.  But who didn’t adore a villain?

      “I stand corrected.  I admit my deduction was made on a sparsity of evidence, so I take pride in the nearness of my estimate. “

      “I understand that.  Drawing conclusions can be a tricky thing.  Let’s see if I can do any better.”

Surely, Gregory was not going to… oh, he was.  And holding his hands apart as if demonstrating the length of fish one desired to purchase for one’s dinner.  So very flippant.  And so very nearly correct.

      “That is most remarkable, I must say.  I would say most of my physical cues were sheathed by the camouflage of my standard costume, but I see such is not the case.  Perhaps, however…”

Mycroft reached over and lightly pulled Lestrade’s hands just a touch wider, ignoring valiantly the immediate flow of warmth into his fingers from the simple touch.  Now it was Lestrade’s turn to gulp.  He’d actually been kidding a little with his estimate but if… that was a happy if.  That was a long and happy if.  Long was good.  And maybe on the slim slide, which was far more versatile if you really thought about it.  Not that he was, of course.  Not about that or the heat that rocked through him when his bare flesh met Mycroft’s.  He’d have to lose another button if he was thinking like that and… well, that top button was really high up and he still looked like a kid going to church so… oh look, say hi to the world skin.

Intolerable!  Hair… the subtle taunt of skin and hair.  Such a masculine image his Gregory presented and no! do not recline back so it is even more simple to picture you reclining against satin-covered pillows on my bed, tempting me with the intoxicating view of your manly chest.  Ah, a soothing drink of sedating beverage.  That should temper the fire in his body slightly… and yes you will get another chance to gauge the flexibility of my tongue, you demon of carnal pursuits.

      “Good to know my cop’s senses are still working top notch.  But you do have a question coming, so I’m ready when you are.”

And if you’re talking you can’t continue stroking you lips with that tongue, which is my job thank you very much, Mycroft Forgets-Who’s-Got-Stroking-Privileges Holmes.

      “As you wish…”

      “And no asking me Top or Bottom? because I’ll need another few drinks for that.”

Now he had to think of another question.  You are most inconsiderate, my dearest Detective Inspector.

      “I would not dream of being so forward.  I shall than enquire – morning or evening?”

      “Ooohhh… for what?”

      “For anything.  Take it as broadly or as narrowly as you desire.”

      “Then I have to say evening.”

      “You are not, what is it called, a morning person?”  

      “Mornings and I aren’t friendly for much besides lying in bed and wishing there was more time to sleep.  But evenings are good.  The best, really.  Whether it’s relaxing or sleeping or having someone keep me from sleeping… evenings are better.”

Mornings should be banned like heroin.  Shamble around like a zombie until he somehow fell out the door and staggered along to the job.  Miserable.  The worst was getting a call right before dawn so you actually had to watch morning show it’s ugly face after it’s gotten more sleep than you did.  Prick.  Morning was a great big prick.  Unless he had something to wake up to in the morning.  Something with the cutest nose a person could have and cute was not a term he applied to grown men without a very good reason.  Like a nose you’d _want_ to wake up just to kiss.  And then move that kiss down to expressive lips and a long, slender neck.  Ok, so maybe mornings weren’t Satanic, as long as you had something pearl-skinned and warm to wake up to…

      “I must agree.  Though I am condemned to a very early start to each day, I have yet to become entirely accustomed to the demand.  I truly believe my bed grows arms and tries to hold me fast, so difficult is it to rise on occasion.”

      “And you just know the clock’s a sodding liar because you’re sure you went to bed five minutes ago and now it’s saying to get up again!  You need to do something about that.  Outlaw lying clocks and beds with grabby hands.”

      “It shall add that at my earliest opportunity to my list of thoroughly despotic acts.  Though, in truth, that might garner me a holiday from the grateful citizens.”

Another round of giggling and another nod for a fresh round of libations.  Good conversation. good beer, sexy talk… this was going exactly the way each had hoped.  No, better than they had hoped.  Everything fit.  Everything worked.  And neither man wanted to be the one to make the first move to really take things further because there was still the slightest chance it would burst this fantastic bubble and there would be nothing for it than ritual suicide if that happened.  But it would have to come at some point.  There were too many pheromones in the air, too many twinkles in the eye and too many years of being with the wrong people to keep it from happening.  This was the right person.  The right person that would make the next part of the night what they’d been waiting for without ever even knowing about it.  So, that first move _would_ have to happen.  Perhaps after a few more ounces of courage…


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we arrive at the last bit of our date. I hope you've enjoyed the ride as much as our boys have, but I highly doubt it ;-)

Amazing.  Mycroft was absolutely amazing and that was _not_ the beer talking.  It had been so long, so miserably long, since he’d had this much fun with another person.  Not that it made any sense since Mycroft was brilliant, sophisticated, graceful, powerful… but this was, by far, the best time he had ever enjoyed in someone’s company.  And he hadn’t had to unfasten any more buttons, either.  There wasn’t, specifically, any sex on offer, and right now, if they didn’t end up tangled in sheets, he wasn’t going to complain.  The evening could end this very instant and it would be a spectacular success.  There wasn’t much doubt that they’d do this again, either.  Both had tossed out little hints and lures that indicated a second meeting was not only welcome, but anxiously anticipated, so he was already giddy with his good fortune.  And what if this could be long-term?  Knowing that he could have this often, maybe as a normal part of his daily life.  Not that he was thinking that way, though, because that’s what the silly little lovesick teenagers did when scribbling love notes to have their best friend slip to the target of their interest and he was certainly not a teenager.  The silly and lovesick part might hold up in court at this point, though.

If he could trade anything he owned for the power to elongate time, Mycroft would give it gladly if it would ensure that this evening would never end.  Such a scintillating partner!  Every one of his senses were gladdened by the man’s presence and his mind… conversation was usually a tiresome and boring thing, but tonight… he could remain here engaged in conversation for a fortnight and never grow tired of the interaction.  As greatly as he longed to engage in sexual activities of the most creative nature with the gloriously handsome man to whom he was speaking, it was actually difficult to want to break away from this comfortable and diverting moment and take a turn in the road to other things.  Not that he would not take his proverbial car into a hairpin turn if he was presented with an offer of physical intimacy, of course, but if it did not arrive, that would not perturb him unduly.  There would be other times to explore that side of what he was very sure was their _relationship_.  This was simply the prologue, perhaps only the title page.  The rest of the story was lying in wait to be examined page by page, and there was an eternity of pages to thumb through…

      “Ok, Mycroft… you win.  You win every prize or medal or trophy for the best date night ever conceived.  Really, I can’t think of anything that could be more fun.  Thank you for this, really; I’m having a great time.”

No, that was not heat on his cheeks because Mycroft Holmes most certainly does not react viscerally to praise.  It was undoubtedly the lovely ale he was currently evaluating… it did have more of a, as they say, _kick_ than the others they had sampled.

      “I am very glad you are enjoying it and I share your contentment with our time together.  I cannot, in my rather formidable memory, recall as pleasant a time as this and that has immeasurable value to me as I am not often presented with opportunities for pleasurable moments.”

Can you see, dearest Gregory how sadly pathetic and needy I am?  Can you not smell the waft of my desperation over the fine perfume of your confidence and self-assurance?  Thank you for not holding a napkin in front of your nose to filter out the enfeebled molecules of my loneliness.  It is a bit of grace I scarcely deserve.

      “Me neither.  I guess that’s another thing we have in common.  But, maybe that won’t really be something I have to worry about anymore.”

Why not just throw yourself naked on the table and ask him to marry you, you idiot.  Ok, that was a bad image, because it really didn’t sound like the worst idea at the moment and he really didn’t need any more fuel for his silly lovesickness.  In five minutes he was going to be doodling big hearts from the water rings on the tabletop.

Could it be?  Was Gregory implying that they… a second assignation had most certainly been agreed upon, though not verbally specified, but was this a statement of desiring more?  Of a longer-term hope?  Was he that fortunate?  He had no experiential basis on which to make a speculation, but there was little to misinterpret in his Gregory’s words.  Would the proper strategy involve brashness?  Bold meeting bold?  Or should he demure and hope to draw out a firmer statement of clarification?  Could that, however, class him as being the stereotypical tease, which was never appropriate in any romantic situation?  No… a Holmes showed courage in all situations, personal and professional, and he would honor the family name and his consort… date… with an ample portion of that courage.

      “I share your hope that it shall not.”

It made no sense that a simple meeting of eyes, cool blue and warm brown, should make one feel as if they were gleefully electrocuted, but Mycroft was absolutely convinced that it was a thick snake of electricity that slithered up his spine and branded something joyful and inerasable in this mind.  Suddenly, remaining in the pub seemed the wrong decision and another locale was required for the continuation of their evening.

      “And perhaps we can discuss that issue further, in a more private location.  Shall we continue on?”

Bold.  Proudly confident and bold.  Now he could forgive himself the aberration of behavior from earlier because he had nobly redeemed himself.  And, if his Gregory’s well-pleased expression was to be believed, his boldness would be plentifully rewarded.

      “I’d say that’s a grand idea.  Let me run to the loo and we can get going.”

      “An excellent suggestion, I shall take my turn after I settle the bill.”

Because it would not do to allow a burgeoning bladder to impede his ability to satisfy the erotic contortions he and his future lover would soon find themselves practicing.  Provided that was Gregory’s intention.  And he was not misreading the cues in a grossly inappropriate manner.  Which was not entirely unlikely as this was not really his area.  Gregory could still desire an amenable, yet chaste, evening.  Blast!  His confidence would spiral into the sewer along with the remains of his delightful beverages.  Attention… he must pay closer attention…

__________

Neither man would admit that, as they walked to Mycroft’s car, they walked more closely than they had when the _left_ the car and that the casual brushes of their hands were anything but accidental.  Two mature and successful men and neither were prepared to be the one to simply lace their fingers together in the way they both were longing to do.  Once at the car, Mycroft rather cheekily held the passenger’s side door open for Lestrade and the Detective Inspector had zero shame about demanding the elder Holmes to take them for another spin in the Audi, to which Mycroft very eagerly complied.  Any chance to impress his partner, would not be squandered.

__________

      “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

      “I assure you, I am not.”

      “Mycroft, this is the oldest trick in the book.  Out of petrol?  Are you getting your moves from bad teen films?”

No, but he was certainly not getting them home immediately since the fuel gauge was sitting solidly on empty.  Perhaps it had been a slight miscalculation to take the car for a country drive at such an adventurous pace.

      “Again, I offer my assurance that is not the case.  I simply…”

      “Forgot this this thing ran on something other than excitement?”  

      “That is very aptly put.”

      “It’s a talent.  So, what do we do now?”

      “I summon assistance and we wait for their arrival.  Do not worry, however, I doubt our wait shall be an extended one.”

Mycroft took out his mobile and, after seeing the standard mobile signal was nonexistent, switched to satellite mode and began to place his call.

      “Hold on, Mycroft.  What’s the hurry?”

      “Pardon?”

      “I’ve got an idea.  Follow me.”

Lestrade got out of the car and a very confused Mycroft Holmes followed quickly, hastily catching up with the man who was striding towards the large, open field abutting the road they were parked alongside.

      “Ok, this looks good.”

      “Good?”

      “Yep.  Down we go.”

Mycroft’s confusion grew as Lestrade dropped down to sit on the grass and stretch out his legs, with his arms thrown back to support him.

      “Come on, don’t make me give the back of your knee a chop.”

Sitting on bare earth was not an activity in which Mycroft regularly indulged and it was not without some hesitation that he took a seat next to Lestrade.

      “Is there a reason we are occupying this patch of ground, Gregory?”

      “It’s nice out, you can actually see the stars and the Moon is beautiful.  How’s that for a reason?”

It was an exceptional one, now that Mycroft considered it, and quickly began to relax into the experience.

      “And, of course, you look gorgeous in the moonlight.  That might factor into things a little, too.”

What was the correct procedure to restart a stalled heart?  Why couldn’t he remember basic first aid now that he was dying from shock of a most amorous nature!  Gorgeous?  Him?  That was absurd, but he was not for a moment going to hand back such a precious and singular gift.

      “Thank you, Gregory.  I am… I truly am at a loss in how to reply other than to pay you the same compliment and affirm that it is given in complete honesty.”

And there was no universe in which any smile could so perfectly mimic the illumination of that moon than his Inspector’s wide and jubilant smile.

      “Flatterer.  Figured we enjoy the night a little before the rescue party shows up.  Not often I get to just sit out and enjoy the outdoors.  London’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but so is this, in its own way.”

And Mycroft had to agree.  It was without shame that he occasionally sought refuge in his country estate to enjoy the special benefits that environment had to offer and now… now he might have found someone to share it with.

      “I concur.  There is a peace to it, but also a wildness and the dichotomy is most agreeable.  I…”

Should he?  He should…

      “I own property in a lovely region and it serves as my sanctuary when I find myself in need of a change of pace.  Perhaps I could show it to you someday?”

      “I’d love that!  Nothing like getting away now and then and letting the body and brain get a break from it all.  Say the word and I’m packing my bag.”

Oh shit.

Oh dear.

That was dumb.

That was heaven-sent.

He’s going to box me any minute now.

I shall ensure our schedules are clear within two weeks.  One must strike while the iron is hot.

      “Excellent!  It shall be a most enjoyable time.  It always is, in truth, but now it shall be doubly so for I shall be able to share the enjoyment with someone I hold dear.”

Oh drat.

Oh yes.

That was supremely unwise.

That was the most amazing thing anyone has ever said to me.

If I do not feel his wrath, it is because I have already expired from humiliation.

If I don’t get my hands on him soon, I’m going to die and that’s _definitely_ going to spoil the evening.

      “Well then, I think we’re both going to have a great time.  I’ll have to get some hints on what to bring to wear though.  I have to admit, I really like what you’ve got on now… shows off your physique very nicely.  And what’s that made of?  Silk?

Lestrade sat up straight and wiped a hand on his trousers before reaching over to run it up and down Mycroft’s arm.

      “A blend, actually, though silk is a major component.  I must admit, however, it _is_ a luxurious feel.”

      “Luxurious is right… it must be murder wearing it and feeling it stroke your skin as you move.”

Lestrade took an inner deep breath and let his hand move upwards to roam across Mycroft’s shoulder and then down to feel the surprisingly firm muscles of his chest.

      “Yeah, this is perfect under my hands… and I’m not just talking about the fabric.”

Mycroft hoped he held back the little moan of pleasure that was battering to be set free, because this _was_ perfect.  Letting his Gregory’s strong hand run as it pleased over his body could be nothing but perfect.  No… he was mistaken.  Feeling that hand rise to caress his cheek was perfect, too.  As was the slight, almost accidental trailing of a few fingers across his lips.  How nice that he had somewhat of an oral fixation…

Ok, this was forward.  Forward and fast and fucking fantastic.  Mycroft’s body was something a model would kill for and his skin… he’d waited patiently all night to touch that beautiful face and now… it felt exactly as exquisite as it looked.  But all of that was running second place to the sensation of Mycroft gently sucking and licking his fingertips, drawing them deeper into his mouth… oh, bugger this…

Lestrade withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his tongue as he drew Mycroft over for the kiss they had both been waiting for since the night began.  And it was a kiss that made appearances in all the grand romance stories of history and every ballad ever sung to and by couples in love.  When it was over, both men simply stared at each other, gasping to catch their breath and hoping to hell that the other person felt their world tilt on its axis as much as they had.

      “Gregory…”

      “Mycroft…”

What silent signal sounded to start each man disrobing, neither ever knew, but in under three seconds, two shirts were lying crumpled on the ground with two pairs of trousers, pants, socks and shoes quickly following.  And moonlight was the ideal illumination for the first tentative and gentle explorations as each man simply used fingers, lips and tongue to learn every inch of their lover’s skin.  And both could not shake the feeling that this was somehow a dream because they were not the type of man to find someone this special.

      “Gregory, my dear, you are simply flawless.”

      “Mycroft, how in the hell can you be so sexy?”

No, they were not the type to find someone as special as the man they were worshipping, but neither was going to turn their back on this piece of luck.  Especially luck that moaned so beautifully.

Lestrade grinned against Mycroft’s thigh, as he ran a hand over his partner’s flat belly and felt it flutter.  So long and lean… and that meant everything.  He could spend hours kissing his way up Mycroft’s legs and then days finishing the trip up to his sweetly agile lips.  And he _knew_ Mycroft dyed his hair!  Now, it wasn’t possible to miss that there was a lot more ginger in the Holmes genes than his lover wanted to admit, but he absolutely adored it.  One long, lean cock framed with well-groomed ginger curls was going to make his dreams a happy place to visit from now until Doomsday.  And his chest!  All that soft, strokable chest hair that made his fingers itch just to think about.  In a moment he’d be sliding around against that chest and it would be hard to keep his mind on what felt better, Mycroft’s chest hair against his skin or Mycroft’s cock rubbing against his own… but, that’s what experiments were for – learning new things…

Mycroft couldn’t control the grin that refused to leave his face as he took in every measure of his Gregory.  The voice that induced trembling in his muscles, the touch that drew out the most shameful noises he had ever uttered and his scent… he knew he was highly sensitive to smells and his nose was reveling in their play as greatly as any other part of him.  He had mapped every portion of the godlike creature in his embrace by scent alone.  His hair, his neck, his warm, strong chest and softer belly, behind his knees and deep between his thighs… every part of him was intoxicating in its aroma and when taste was added to smell… he would be forever happy lying between his Gregory’s legs letting his senses take in the sight, smell and taste of the thick erection and heavy scrotum that responded splendidly every time something particularly naughty was perpetrated, especially if it involved certain areas further below and even better provided with the primal musk that he would never be able to remove from his thoughts…

Cradling his lover’s body gently and rolling him onto his back, Lestrade groaned with happiness that Mycroft had no issue with him being on top as they situated themselves so they could share their emotions fully in another deep and lengthy kiss.  Whenever he’d slept with a man, they always wanted him under them, either from natural personality or because they liked the idea of topping a cop.  But this was how he liked it best.  He loved being the one to take the kiss, to control the pace, to be the one to play his lover’s body and make them light up with pleasure.  And Mycroft was positively luminous right now.  His skin glowed both from the touch of the moon and the arousal that was putting a shine of sweat above his upper lip that tasted delicious when licked off.  And, like this, he could indulge in the fur-like chest hair that drove him absolutely crazy when it teased his chest and stomach.  Not that he was baby-bum bare, but it wasn’t like this.  And those curled ginger strands that his cock was sliding through were their own brand of delightful torture.  Apparently he’d developed a hair fetish and… oh yes, running his hands through the locks on Mycroft’s head set his erection jerking like it had been slapped.  This man was glorious… and he wasn’t going to let him go.

Finally, someone with whom he could indulge his desires and let himself be taken.  His former lovers assumed, and never bothered to truly learn to the contrary, that he enjoyed being the dominant partner.  While that held appeal at times, this was what was the most thrilling.  Blanketed by the heat, weight and scent of a strong body who took command allowed him the luxury of… experience.  To feel and smell and taste and see without distraction… to savor the sensations that were lovingly given and enjoy a sharp mental pleasure from knowing his body was providing the vehicle for his lover’s own excitement.  Gregory was _taking_ stimulation from him and was wildly arousing.  And dearest Gregory was taking from all quarters… such a skilled and talented lover.  He used his whole body in lovemaking and, in turn, no part of his own body was left ignored.  Each inch of skin burned with a nearly stinging heat and he couldn’t help but arch upwards to seek a release from the heat and the sting and the brain-crippling lust and the need to feel the nearly spiritual break that would let his seed spill free as his gift to his partner.  A partner who, he vowed, would be his last.

Two bodies moved with instinctive rhythm, mating their desires with the other’s needs and Lestrade nearly came when Mycroft’s whispered ‘please’ entered his ears.  It was all he could do to concentrate on bringing his incomparable lover every last bit of pleasure he could, moving his hips in the ways he had learned his Mycroft liked best and when Mycroft’s eyes closed and warm splashes decorated both their skin, he could hold back no longer and it was only a few more thrusts before he was painting his partner with his own promise that this was the most fulfilling sex he had ever enjoyed.

And that was a promise that had to be cemented properly.  He _had_ to kiss him.  Mycroft looked too wrecked and wanton and if he didn’t take another kiss from those lips he’d never forgive himself.  And wasn’t it nice that when Mycroft opened his eyes they nearly beckoned him to lay quietly a moment and wait for the world stop spinning.  He couldn’t let this man go.  He might be rich and powerful and everything else, but he was also the only person who made the world spin and that was not something he could ever walk away from.  Not without living the remainder of his life with a hole in his chest.

One kiss.  He had to have a kiss from this man who looked so beguilingly sated and debauched.  One kiss that would close the chapter on this portion of their epic and reveal the fresh, blank page for the next to begin.  Gregory might be decent and honorable and wholly unlike his own sad self, but he was also the only person who made the rest of the world vanish when they were together.  Today, tomorrow… it did not matter; no one else could touch his heart and mind so effortlessly and he craved it.  Craved it and would suffer cruelly if he could not satisfy that craving the rest of his days.

      “Can I say that was beyond amazing?  Really, Mycroft… I can’t tell you how good that was because those words haven’t been invented yet.”

      “Then I shall labor tirelessly to bring them into existence because my own vocabulary requires their presence, also.  I, too, have no words and that is a unique situation for me.  I am content to a degree I never thought possible and that contentment is truly more valuable at this moment than my ability to think.”

      “Is it ok if I say that I don’t want this to be a one-night thing?  Or even a two-night thing, if I’m honest.  Maybe it’s too soon, but…”

      “But, you already have my wholehearted approval and support, Gregory, so do not distress yourself.  I also do not wish, nor plan, for this to be our only encounter.  I would see them stretch far into the distance of time.”

      “You and me… that how it’s going to be?”

      “If you have no objection.”

      “Not a one.  In fact, I’ll be ready to celebrate that agreement in a couple of hours and after a good hot shower with a good hot man.”

      “Then, let us make haste.  I can provide access to both, as well as a rather large bed that shall suit our needs handily.”

      “One more kiss though, ok?”

      “Never ask, Gregory.  They belong to you and you may indulge as freely as you wish.”

__________

No, it was not snooping that made Anthea ride along with the petrol can to the remote and rather romantic location of her employer’s car.  And no, it was not a smile that she was unsuccessfully hiding seeing the rumpled state of the couple’s clothing, the bit of leaf stuck to Lestrade’s neck and the completely devastated state of Mycroft’s hair.  No mention would be made, either, of the fact that Mr. Holmes’s beautiful shirt was being worn inside out or that she had never seen him look at anyone so softly and tenderly as he did the Detective Inspector.  But, there would be a further clearing of agenda items for tomorrow.  In fact, tomorrow was going to be cancelled outright, as far as government matters were concerned.  She had never before gotten to witness the conception of a happy marriage and that was worth a day off to celebrate.


End file.
